


Determined

by Vague_Shadows



Series: Desolate [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullies, Depression, Flashbacks, Hurt!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, I'll be updating tags as I go let me know if you think I'm missing something, Kidnapping, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sequel, Suicidal Thoughts, memories of past abuse, references to past non-con and dub-con, references to past sexual trauma, time stamps, with some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 113,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a long road to recovery for Stiles and the people he loves... </p><p>AKA</p><p>a series of time stamp chapters that span the time from Desolate to Dedicated</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Walk Through Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Say Anything Song

“Stiles, no! Snap out of it, Stiles, please!”

Isaac flails himself out of the bed as he screams.  Derek hurries to hold him as Stiles backs away.  Stiles figured this would happen eventually; he was expecting it even though he hoped he was wrong.  It doesn’t make the guilt any less overwhelming.

“Hey, just a bad dream,” Derek says, plopping on the floor next to Isaac.

“Yeah, I know. I’m okay,” he answers, voice trembling.

“Isaac I—”

When Stiles takes a step toward him, Isaac jerks back involuntarily, and Stiles retreats again. 

   “Sorry,” Isaac says quickly. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m not—I’m not scared of _you_. It’s just—just a nightmare it’s fine. I’m just jumpy. Give me a minute.”

   “It was a nightmare of _me_ ,” Stiles counters. “Isaac, I heard you.”

   “Stiles, I’m okay. I’m really okay.  Please don’t feel bad.”

   _You’re having nightmares because I tortured you.  How the hell am I supposed to feel?_

“Come on,” Isaac says.  “I’m all right now. Let’s—let’s get back to bed.”

   “I can sleep downstairs if—”

   “Stiles, I’m _fine._ ”

   Isaac moves to the middle of the bed as they lay back down.  Stiles tries to ignore the way Isaac’s shaking and the fact that he’s curling into Derek rather than sharing the space evenly. 

   _It doesn’t mean anything. He’s not scared of me. It doesn’t mean anything._

But when Isaac wakes screaming again an hour later, the guilt only amplifies.

   _God, Isaac, I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry.  Please try not to hate me._

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

Isaac wants to shut out the images, but every time he closes his eyes Stiles is carving into him again.  Isaac knows why Stiles did what he did. He knows he’s got nothing to be scared of anymore. He just can’t make it go away.  He’s _got_ to find a way though because Stiles looks absolutely wracked with guilt, and he shouldn’t. He’s the only fucking reason they had a shot in hell at getting out of that warehouse alive.

_Derek can make it go away._

“Do you think you could learn to block memories?” Isaac wonders.

   They’re at the kitchen table—even the sheriff woke with the last round of hysterics from Isaac—and it’s near enough to morning that they’re just staying up.  The aroma of brewing coffee provides some small consolation to the early hour.

   “It might take some practice,” Derek replies, “but we can try.”

   “I want you to block it,” Isaac says.  “There’s no reason for me to keep it.  The moment’s gone.  It served its purpose.  I don’t want it.”

   “We can ask Deaton for advice,” Derek says.  “Start trying today and—”

   “You’ll have to sort through the memories,” Stiles says quietly, coming back from starting the coffee.  “I think—I think you can probably get close? But there were flashes of a lot of memories, like they were sifting through, and then things would start disappearing,” he tells them.  “It’s going to hurt,” he adds to Isaac.

   Isaac shrugs. He’ll take the temporary pain if it means a lifetime without that memory haunting all three of them.

   “I’ll be fine.”

   “Isaac, don’t—don’t do this for me,” Stiles says. “Please don’t.”

   _I’d do a lot more for a lot less, Stiles._

“You think I want to have nightmares?” Isaac asks.  “I’m asking for _me_. If Derek can help out with it, why not make use of the awesome Alpha mojo?”

   “Because it’s—because they—just _because_.”

   “Stiles—”

   “I don’t want you going through that for me; it’s—it’s fucking awful okay? It hurts like something fucking searing through your brain and burning out memories and you want to keep them but they get ripped out of your mind and you shouldn’t have to—”

   “Stiles,” Isaac says again, interupting the stream of pained words Stiles is blurting; he squeezes Stiles' hand in reassurance.  “It’ll be different.”

   “How will it—”

   “They were _taking_ your memories, against you will, with you terrified, and they _wanted_ to hurt you. I’m _giving_ this up.  I _want_ Derek to block it, and he wants to _help._ It’ll be different.”

   “You don’t know that; it—”

   “Even if it hurts, it will be worth it,” Isaac says with a tight smile.  “I don’t want the memory anymore, Stiles.”

   The pain and guilt in Stiles’ eyes is about to rip Isaac in two.  He almost wants to agree and not have Derek try, but he can’t have nightmares like this.  He can’t let this haunt all three of them; he doesn’t _want_ it to.  It _shouldn’t_. They have enough other shit to deal with.

   “It’s not just the pain it—”

   “He’s not re-writing me,” Isaac emphasizes.  “It’s one memory. It’s different from what the Alphas did to you.  It’s not going to change who I am or how I act or anything fundamental.  I love you just as much with or without it.”

   “Then you don’t have to get rid of it. You—”

   “I _want_ to.  I don’t want nightmares that make you feel guilty for what _saved_ us.”

   “Don’t do this for me,” Stiles repeats.

   “I’m doing this for _all of us._ ”

   “Isaac—”

   “If you don’t want Derek to mess with your memories, that’s your decision to make,” Isaac says, “and this one is mine.  I want Derek to block the memory.”

   Isaac knows Stiles still doesn’t like this.  Isaac can only imagine the mix of emotions and old memories that this conjures up, and he can’t begin to understand everything behind the apprehension Stiles feels at Isaac taking this step.  Regardless, he can’t help hoping maybe—just maybe—this will help do more than just protect Stiles from guilt after nightmares.  Stiles has never seen memory blocking other than using it as a weapon to inflict pain and conditioning; _maybe_ if he sees this, the good and peace of mind that will hopefully come from it, he’ll reconsider letting Derek help him too.  It’s one of the greatest options they have for trying to help heal the hurt they couldn’t save Stiles from.

   _Two birds with one stone? Maybe?_

 _Please?_            

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   It’s easier than Derek thought it would be, but, then again, his anchor is stronger than it’s ever been in his life.  He understands what Stiles means about sifting through memories: flashes of that god-awful day bombard him—he sees Isaac waking to the sight of Alec beating Stiles; he sees Rachael pin Isaac to the ground; as Stiles comes into view, he wills the memory away, pushing it out in the same way he pushes them in to give.  He hesitates for just a second as the day keeps playing watches his blood-spattered, tear-streaked face loom over Isaac as he lies bleeding on the floor.  He thinks for a moment of trying to block that moment too, not wanting Isaac to remember the terror of imminent death, but he doesn’t.  Instead he removes his hand from Isaac’s neck, helping Stiles catch him as he starts to crumple; he’s whimpering in pain he’s clearly trying not to show.

   “Isaac—”

   “I’m okay; I’m good. I’m good.”

   “The pain’ll fade out in another minute or so,” Stiles tells him, one hand on the back of Isaac’s neck to draw at least the physical part away himself. 

   “It’s not so bad,” Isaac tells him.  “Don’t look so upset, Stiles. I’m good.”

   As the pain recedes, Derek can see Isaac working through what led to this moment.

   “You blocked something,” he says to Derek.  “I was having nightmares so I asked you to block something.”

   “Yeah,” Derek confirms. “It worked?”

   “I—guess? I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

   “The day we killed the alphas,” Stiles says.  “What did I do?”

   Isaac considers a moment before saying, “You killed Alec and that other Alpha and you killed the beta that was trying to kill me.  You started the fight that saved us.”

   “Yeah,” Derek agrees.

   “You blocked part of that day?”

   “Yeah.”

   Isaac’s quiet a moment more before he says.  “You blocked whatever hurt me that bad.  I remember Rachel pinning me when I was trying to get to Stiles—then Stiles killed Alec, and I was hurt—bad.”

   “Yeah, I blocked that part. D’you want to hear what—”

   “No,” Isaac says firmly. “I don’t care. Whatever it was—thanks for uh—thanks for blocking it.  They’re what—I had nightmares about something, it was that?”

   “Yeah.”

   “Good.  Good then.”  He’s staring at Stiles with worried eyes.  “Stiles, are you okay?”

   “Yeah, I’m fine.  I just don’t like seeing you hurt,” Stiles says, and Isaac must know it’s a half-truth but doesn’t call him on it.

 ******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

   Isaac’s grilling out burgers to have ready when Dad gets off work.  They’re all hanging out in the backyard, still making the most of the weather.  It’ll start getting cold soon, and Stiles hates the idea of being cooped up inside; not that the cold is enough to stop him, but it’s enough to stop days like this at least. Derek wanders out to where Stiles is swinging lazily in the tire swing.

   “You going to tell me what’s been bugging you, or are you going to make me guess?”

“If you can guess, I’ll talk about it,” Stiles challenges, knowing Derek probably does have a good idea what’s going on.

“You’re considering letting me block memories,” Derek answers hopefully.

   Stiles nods. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he hedges.  “I’m still just _considering._ ”

   “That’s better than nothing.”

   “I guess.”

It’s been two days since Isaac asked Derek to block the torture.  It wasn’t hard for Derek to do.  It worked seamlessly.  Now it’s stirring up all kinds of questions and possibilities Stiles would rather not face but can’t get out of his head.  Isaac’s mentioned Derek maybe blocking some of Stiles’ worst memories a couple of times now, backing off when Stiles ignores it.  He wonders if Derek mentioning it now is Derek’s idea or Isaac’s; he decides it doesn’t matter.

   “Is it—is it because you don’t want to do what the alphas did?” Derek asks.  “Or because you don’t want me in your head to see what’s there?”

   “Funnily enough, that’s exactly what Morrell asked,” Stiles asks.

It’s supposed to be a simple comment, but there’s a hint of bitterness in the statement. He brought it up at counseling yesterday, and he’s still not a hundred percent sure how he feels about her response.

   “You talked to her about it?”

   “Yeah.”

   Stiles falls silent, and Derek doesn’t push the issue.  After another moment or two Stiles finally decides to bite the bullet.

   “She thinks I should let you,” he says.  “Or at least let you try once and see if it helps.  Before—one of the first times we talked—she said she could understand why I wouldn’t want to do it, but now—I dunno—now she thinks it might be a good trust thing, ya know? And bonding and shit by letting people help me and all that stuff.”

   He hardly ever talks about sessions with Morrell to any extent, but Derek doesn’t comment on it, which he’s grateful for.

   “And what do you think?” Derek prompts.

   “I told her that was bullshit. I already trust you guys.”

   Derek huffs out a little laugh.  “Well, that’s good.”

   “But I’m kinda thinking maybe it’s not bullshit.”

   _I’m thinking she’s right.  I’m thinking that killing those bastards did a hell of a lot to help with closure and resolution and whatever the else she called it.  Now it really is more about the fear of what you all would think—how you’d react—if you’d be able to even look at me anymore.  I can’t lose any of you, and you can say as many times as you want that you’re not going to leave, but I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to trust that._

“No?”

   “I mean I _do_ trust you. Of course I do—”

   “But you’re not sure we’d trust _you_ if you told us.  You’re not sure we’d stay.”

   Stiles nods, avoiding Derek’s eyes.  They’re quiet a while longer and he waits for Derek or Isaac to start spouting reassurances.  He’s not expecting what Derek actually uses to break the silence.

   “I never told Laura the truth,” he admits, and that has Stiles looking up, but now Derek’s the one avoiding eye contact. “I still don’t know what she would’ve done.” He pauses a moment before going on.  “So I get it, I do.”

   “Thanks.”

   “But you and Isaac know,” Derek continues, “and you’re still here. Sometimes I don’t know why the hell you are, but you are.”

   “Of course we’re still here, Derek. She took advantage of you. She—”

   “And they didn’t take advantage of you?” he counters.

   “It’s—”

   “It’s different, you’re right,” he interrupts.  “They didn’t just take advantage of you; they took _you,_ Stiles.  We’ve seen you go back to conditioning.  You’re a puppet just trying to survive.  There’s no fucking way in that mindset that you had a clear idea of wrong or right; there’s no way you could have resisted them even if you did.  It was literally all you knew.  It wasn’t _you_. It wasn’t your fault.  It was theirs, all theirs, and what matters _now_ is that you got away and you got better and you’re not ever going to be in a place like that again.”

   The words strike deep, but Stiles doesn’t let himself stop to consider them.  He just pushes back at the idea.

   “You told me yourself you wouldn’t erase Kate.”

   “No,” he agrees, “but Kate was—Kate was the mistake of an idiot teenager.  It’s a life lesson—a damn fucking harsh life lesson—but it’s—it’s something that happens.”

   “Being the unwitting victim of a psychopathic pyromaniac is not ‘just something that happens’.  It’s just as fucked up as—”

   “No, it’s _not_!” Derek insists.  “Dammit, Stiles, yeah Kate mindfucked me, but it’s something that could happen _again_ you understand? If I’m ever that stupid again, if I ever let people know that much about my pack without thought, if I trust hunters blindly, if I let my guard down, _it could happen again._ Do you see that? It’s a reminder, and yeah it makes me fucked up, but that’s the price I fucking pay for getting my whole damn family killed. 

“That’s not what happened to you.  You were _innocent_ Stiles! They took you to get to me—to get to the whole pack.  They fucked you up for fun.  _They_ are the ones who did all those things; maybe you were the puppet, but you were never the instigator.  All you ever did was be loyal to the only pack you knew.  _That_ is what _you_ did; what they abused that to do is on them, not you. Even if you let me take _one_ thing, one little thing, it’ll be a little less that they win, a little less that they get to keep hurting you. We couldn’t stop them then, but we can stop them now, and you don’t deserve to feel this way, Stiles.  You were the _victim._ Don’t let them keep hurting you.”

   He starts out shouting, but by the end it’s a quiet plea that Stiles is all but powerless to ignore.

   “You were a victim, too,” he says quietly. “You—”

   “Please don’t make this about me,” Derek says.  “You fucking know what point I’m trying to make here. I don’t know how to try and argue it any different just—just—it’s your decision, you know that, but I wish to God you’d let me at least try to help, even just a little.”

   He bites at the lower lip, eyes dropping to the ground again. 

   “And no matter what it is you tell me to look for, I swear to God I won’t tell anyone else in the pack if you don’t want me to.  You know I don’t even keep a clear replication of the memory after I block it. At least keep considering it? Even if—”

   “Okay,” Stiles interrupts, the agreement out before he’s sure he means it to be. 

   “Okay?”

   “I mean—not like—not right now. I don’t know what I would let you—I don’t know what I can talk about enough to let you block it, but something—soon—we’ll—we’ll—yeah.”

   “Even if it’s just something little,” Derek reminds him, clearly thrilled to get any kind of agreement.  “You—”

   “I know. I got it. You don’t have to sell me on it anymore. I’ll—uh—I’ll let you know when I decide on something?”

   “Yeah, whenever you’re ready.”

   _Not entirely sure I’m ever gonna be ready, but we’ll see.  Even if it’s just something little._

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   It’s a little trickier to block memories for Stiles.  There’s a lot more guesswork because Derek wasn’t there for any of it.  It takes longer to sift through, and he fucking hates the pain it causes Stiles.  Derek retains only the barest of memories of the things he blocks—flashes of gore and screams and pleading and pain—but it’s more than enough to understand why Stiles says the discomfort of having the memories blocked doesn’t matter. 

   At first he’ll only tell Derek about predictable things like particularly bad punishments and ‘lessons’.  Morrell was right to say this would bring them closer together, even though it wrecks all three of them when Stiles struggles to get out enough information for Derek to find memories.

   _I burned the dinner I was making, and they…_

_I tried to run from Thomas, and he…_

_I couldn’t get it up for Rachel, and she…_

_I didn’t run fast enough, and Alec…_

_I got in a fight with another beta, and they made us…_

The words always come out strained and short, like they’re being ripped from Stiles throat.  He always attempts to keep his face painfully neutral.  They don’t try to talk about it after because Stiles made them promise they wouldn’t.  They don’t talk about any of the memories of being a weapon either.   Derek’s not entirely sure they’ll ever reach that point, but he’s grateful for what Stiles will talk about.  He’s glad to have a chance to erase things he couldn’t prevent. 

He can understand why Stiles doesn’t want to talk.  He understands that there are levels of pain that words can’t touch.  Even though Derek takes memories, he can only take fragments at time, leaving all the other bits of Stiles’ hell dredged to the surface of his mind.  Maybe he’s being spared some of the worst, but it doesn’t make the lesser evils any less heinous.

Some days Derek blocks only a memory or two before Stiles doesn’t want to talk about anything anymore, not even in the name of erasing them.  Some days the sharing comes more easily and Derek can block a dozen or more.  Some days Stiles seems visibly happier after the memories have been blocked. Some days Stiles can’t stop shaking even though he isn’t sure why, and they pile on the couch in a tangle of limbs Stiles says helps to settle him.  Some days he can’t stand to be touched at all. 

The most important thing though, is that _every_ day Stiles is a little better.  Everyday there’s just a hint less of the haunted look in his eyes.  Everyday Derek is more grateful than he can say to ease the burden to whatever extent he can.  Everyday he feels like they’re winning, helping Stiles as he reclaims the life the Alphas tried to take from him. He relishes that victorious feeling, hoping against hope that it lasts.

 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************

  

Stiles has been quiet tonight, and Isaac’s not quite sure why.  He called off the memory blocking early today—just one after breakfast before he said he couldn’t handle any more.  They hadn’t pushed it.  Stiles has started to talk a couple times, aborting the conversation before it gets far enough for Isaac to guess what’s on his mind.  They’re getting ready for bed before Stiles finally gets the words out.

   “There was a girl,” he blurts.  “There was this skinny blonde girl,” he continues, closing his eyes, and Isaac knows he can see her, wonders if she’s one of the many faces that haunt Stiles’ nightmares.  “With blue eyes in a green dress.” They wait silently for him to continue because there’s clearly more to be said, and Isaac grabs Stiles’ hand as tears escape his firmly shut eyes.  “It was the house on Graham. It was my—my—first full moon with them and I—I—oh, God, I—”

The sentence chokes off into a sob, and it’s not hard to guess the words Stiles can’t say.  It’s more than enough to know what happened—to an extent anyway—because Isaac, Derek, and Scott are the ones who found her mangled body dumped out on the preserve.  Isaac remembers her clouded blue eyes, the putrid stench of the corpse, the gouges in her flesh that told the story of her slow and painful death. It’s hard to stomach the idea that Stiles even witnessed that kind of horror, much less forced to take part in it.  Isaac fights the bile rising in his throat and bites on his cheek ‘til he tastes blood to keep his face neutral.    

“It’s okay, Stiles. I’ll block it,” Derek promises.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles say. He’s crying openly now, and Isaac can’t help pulling him in close, embracing him as Derek moves to take the memory.

_I’m so sorry we couldn’t save you from that. We’ve got you now though. I’m here. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere._

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Isaac reminds him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Derek agrees. 

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   The thing Stiles kind of hates about Derek blocking memories is that he’s not blocking _everything._ They’re just slowly working through the highlight—lowlight?—reel of the months of hell Stiles went through.  At first the most Derek can remove in one try is an hour or two; now he can take about four, but it’s still just tiny steps of progress at a time.  A couple weeks after they start, a decent portion of the four months at the Alphas hands is now blessedly blank. Stiles shudders to think how much worse the missing memories must have been if these memories that remain are the _least_ horrific _._ He can’t help wondering for the millionth time how there’s any sanity left in him.

   Derek leeches away the memories of abuse, but Stiles is still struggling to bring himself to share the worst of his transgressions.  No matter how many times Derek insists Stiles was the victim, no matter how many times Isaac swears it wasn’t Stiles’ fault, he _still_ can’t shake the sense of guilt and the paralyzing fear that one day he’s going to share something too terrible for them to overlook.   He already can’t stand the careful way they control their reactions whenever he shares; he’s told them not to bother—he knows this shit is too horrifying to just take in stride—but all they ever show is sympathy and support and poorly-masked righteous fury that he knows would have them resurrecting the alphas just to kill them again if Chris Argent hadn’t burned the bodies.

He hates the alphas for this, for the guilt he logically knows he shouldn’t carry but carries regardless, for the secrets he’s keeping that put a rift between him and his pack, for the endless atrocities they crammed into four months of torment that he’s not sure will ever stop haunting him to one extent or another, no matter how many memories Derek manages to block.

“Stiles, you okay?” Isaac murmurs quietly.

He’s rolled over in his sleep and realized Stiles is still lying awake despite the fact it’s well past midnight. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Stiles replies, “I don’t want anything to sleep. I’m okay.”

“Wake us up if you need us, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.  Don’t worry. I’m okay _._ Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmkay,” Isaac agrees with a yawn. 

He settles in closer, and Stiles tries not to hold back too tightly.  Finally, what seems an eternity later, he manages to drift to sleep.

_The two humans inside the house are shrieking in terror as the Alphas easily capture and bind them.  He pours the gasoline around the perimeter with the other betas, making sure the fire will catch and burn quickly.  He wonders vaguely who the humans are.  Have they helped the other pack? The Alphas say the mongrels are so desperate they’ve started recruiting humans as allies.  Or maybe this is just a new game they’re exploring? Thomas’ favorite punishment has always been inflicting scalds and burns, the smell of burning flesh sets his eyes alight like nothing else._

_He focuses back to the task at hand; it’s not his place to ask questions._

_“Light it,” the Alphas instruct as they come out the back door sometime later._

_“Yes, Alpha,” the betas answer as one._

_He catches the book of matches tossed to him and in one deft motion lights the lot of them. The flame glows bright against the black of the night and erupts into billows of oranges and blues as he casts it into the accelerant._

_When he turns to follow his Alphas, it’s not Alec or Thomas who stand there, it’s Derek with the whole Hale Pack back behind him._

_“I—”_

_“They’re my parents!” Jackson screams, face contorted into an ugly mask of rage.  “MY FAMILY!!! YOU WOULD KILL MY PARENTS YOU SON OF A BITCH?!?!? I’LL RIP YOUR THROAT OUT!!!”_

_Stiles doesn’t fight back, doesn’t blame the others as they stand by and just watch. He just curls in on himself, whimpering apologies that sound futile and pathetic even to his own ears. It seems forever before Jackson’s fury ebbs enough that he storms away still cursing Stiles’ traitorous hide. Lydia follows behind him, and Scott’s not far behind, shaking his head as though he can’t believe what’s happened.  Only Isaac and Derek remain, staring down at Stiles with anguished eyes._

_“Please, I didn’t—”_

_“How could you?” Derek wonders, voice breaking with the agony of one deeply betrayed.  “Stiles, how could you ever—”_

_“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—”_

_“What the hell kind of monster are you?” Isaac asks.  “Something is broken in you,” he decides.  “You’re—”_

_He turns away without finishing the sentence, seemingly too disgusted to even look at Stiles anymore._

_“Derek, please, I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”_

_“Don’t try to follow us, Stiles,” Derek says firmly.  “There’s no place for wolves like you in this pack.”_

_“No, no I can—”_

_“You can be better?” Derek mocks cruelly.  “You can be good?”_

_“Please—”_

_“No, you can’t be better, Stiles. You will always be this. You will always be the monster they made you.”_

_“No, I won’t. I—”_

_“Stay away from my pack,” Derek growls._

_“No, please. It’s my pack. I can't do this without you I—”_

_“You don’t deserve place in a pack like this.  You’re a liability.  You’re a fucked up little monster. You’re a burden.”_

_“I—”_

_“Tell me I’m wrong,” Derek challenges._

_“Derek, please—”_

_“That’s what I thought.”_

_He turns away and drapes his arm over Isaac’s shoulders, ushering him to follow the others and leaving Stiles lying broken and alone._

_“No, Derek, please! Isaac!”_

_They don’t stop, don’t hesitate, don’t look back._

_“Please, please come back, please! Isaac! Derek!”_

_They fade into the blackness as Stiles’ screams for all he’s worth, trying desperately to follow but unable to make his limbs move._

_“PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!!! I’M SORRY!!! I’M SO FUCKING SORRY!!! PLEASE!!!!”_

“STILES! WAKE UP!” Derek thunders in the Alpha tone.

His eyes snap open immediately, blackness of the dream giving way to the light cast by the lamp on the bedside table. 

_Not gone. Not leaving. Here. He’s here. They’re both here._

He latches his arms around Derek’s neck, and Derek wraps his arms around Stiles in turn.  Derek shifts them so that Stiles is sitting in his lap. 

_Please stay. Please stay. Please. Please. Please._

“Shhhhh,” Derek soothes, cradling the back of Stiles’ head in his hand as Stiles sobs into his shoulder.   “Shhh, it’s okay.  You’re okay.  You’re safe.”

“I’m sorry; God, I’m so sorry, Derek, Isaac, please.”

“It’s okay.  It wasn’t your fault it’s okay.”

“I’d never hurt the pack, never put the pack in danger. I’d die for the pack. I—”

“I know,” Derek promises. “I know you love your pack, Stiles. You have a place with us. You always, _always_ have a place with us. No matter what.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You don't have anything to be sorry for; it’s okay.”

He panics when Derek’s hold on him slackens, clinging back desperately.  “No, please don’t let go,” he wails, distraught beyond caring how shamefully pathetic he sounds.

“I’m not; I’m not,” Derek promises, pulling him in tighter before continuing, “but Isaac’s got your medicine.  You want it?”

Stiles hadn’t noticed Isaac leaving, but now he’s back with the vial and syringe.

“No.”

_You might leave. If I’m sedated I won’t want up and you might—you could—_

“Please don’t let go,” he repeats. “I don’t want the sedative.  Just please don’t let go.”

“Okay,” Derek agrees with quick kiss to the top of Stiles head.  “I’m not gonna let go.  We’re not going anywhere, you’re okay.”

“Isaac?” he whines.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he promises, getting back on the bed and rubbing soothing circles on Stiles back.  “We’re both here.  We’re not going anywhere.  No matter what happened, no matter what happens next, we’re not going anywhere, not ever. You’re stuck with us.”

_No, you’re the one who’s stuck with me._

_And I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry for all of it, for what I helped them do, for what I’m putting you through now, for all the shit you’re going to have to deal with for the rest of your fucking lives if you don’t get smart and leave._

_So so so fucking sorry._

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

The nightmares change when Stiles starts telling them more and more about the things he did with the Alphas.  Isaac’s still not sure if it’s worse to wake to Stiles begging for mercy or pleading for forgiveness; mostly he just wonders how fucking long it’s going to be before Stiles finally gets some peace.  He relies on the sedatives sometimes, but after most nightmares these days he begs not to have it, falling back into restless sleep.  He clings to Derek and Isaac as though they may disappear the moment his eyes close.  Isaac can’t help hearing the fear from weeks ago: _I keep dreaming you leave._

   _We’re never going anywhere. Please, please, believe it. Know it, Stiles. You have to know that. We called dibbs, remember? We’d never leave you._

While the nightmares don’t subside completely, they wane with time—with night after night of Isaac and Derek waking Stiles, shushing and holding him tightly as he shakes, calling Scott, Jackson, and Lydia, who gladly come over to give Stiles the blanket of pack to hide under, the sheriff disappearing and returning with pizza and ice cream and DVDs of Stiles favorite childhood cartoons—and slowly the nightmares become manageable.

Equally heartening, in waking hours the guilt and fear in Stiles’ eyes starts to lessen.  The flashbacks get farther and farther apart.  He’s not magically better, but he’s healing steadily.  Isaac feels like maybe he can see the “better” part of “getting better” coming up on the horizon. 

   He just hopes it’s not a mirage.

 

 

***************************

 

Derek takes away the memory of Stiles ‘training’ another beta.  There’s still countless more horrors to sort though, but they’ve made some good progress these past weeks. 

Derek’s already walking to the kitchen to grab him a glass of water when Stiles calls him back.

“Derek—Derek something’s wrong,” Stiles says, words too slow as his eyes glaze over.

Derek catches Stiles as his body goes rigid and begins to fall from the chair.  He’s convulsing uncontrollably, eyes rolling back in his head as he screams in pain.

“Deaton! Call Deaton,” Derek commands, but Isaac’s ahead of him; he’s already got the phone in his hand dialing.

It looks like a seizure; Derek struggles to keep a hold on Stiles as he spasms, scared he’ll hurt himself if he thrashes on the floor.  The thing is, a seizure should’ve ended in a few minutes and shouldn’t have Stiles shrieking in pain like this. Isaac’s frantically insisting Deaton tell them what to do.  Over Stiles cries of pain he hears Deaton remind them he’s never seen a case like Stiles’ before.  He can’t offer them any guidance other than to try and leech the pain or maybe sedate him if it keeps going.  He promises to come as soon as he can to examine Stiles himself.

When Stiles finally stops seizing—for lack of a better term—he lies terrifyingly slack in Derek’s arms for all of thirty seconds before he regains awareness; the moment his eyes clear, they widen in terror as tension shoots through his entire body.

“Thank you, Alpha; I’ll be better now. I can be better,” he swears, and though Derek tries not to show his horror at the transition, he must not succeed because Stiles continues.  “Please, Alpha, please I’m sorry. I—”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Derek promises.  “I know you’re in pain, but it was a seizure, not a punishment, okay?  You weren’t being punished.  You’re a good beta.”

“Thank you, Alpha, thank you. I—”

“Do you know my name?” Derek wonders.  “Think, try to concentrate.  Can you remember my name?”

“Alpha.”

“Yes, but I have a _name_ —like a human.  Can you remember it?”

_Come on, Stiles. Come on. Find the memories. Please find the memories._

“I don’t—Alpha, I can’t remember; I can’t remember anything. I’m sorry, Alpha.”

“You can’t remember anything?” Derek repeats.  “Nothing?”

“But I still know how to be good, Alpha. I can be good. I prom—”

“You _are_ good,” Derek swears.  “You’re a very good beta.  You don’t have to worry about that.  You always have a place here, and you’ll never be punished.  You’re a very good beta.”

He relaxes just slightly at the words.

“Thank you, Alpha.”

“My name is Derek; I’d like you to call me Derek.”

“Yes, Derek.”

“We call you Stiles.”

“Stiles. Yes, Derek.”

It’s a weird sense of déjà vu to have this conversation, but Derek doesn’t dwell on the thought because if he starts wondering how familiar this conversation is going to get in coming months and years he’s going to lose it.

“I’m going to stand up and carry you to the couch, okay? I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

Stiles tenses again in spite of Derek’s words.  He remains stiff and braced even when Derek deposits him on the sofa, lying back against the pillows.

“Stay here, okay? Just—close your eyes and rest a minute.  Are you still in any pain?”

“It won’t slow me down, Derek. I won’t be weak. I—”

“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about _you._ I don’t want you to hurt, Stiles. How bad is it?”

“It’s not bad. I’m okay. Thank you, Derek.”

He knows Stiles is probably in more pain than he lets on, but Derek also knows some of it might be psychosomatic pain he can’t help with anyway.

_What happened? How do I help you? Was it because I’ve been blocking memories? Is it psychosomatic? Or is it a physical human kind of seizure? What the fuck do we do?_

He does at least know that panicking in front of Stiles sure as hell won’t help anything.

“Stiles, I’m going to go speak with Isaac—the other beta. You stay here.  Rest.  Try to relax.  I’ll be back.”

“Yes, Derek.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************88

 

   The terror Isaac feels is present in Derek’s face.

   “What d’you think happened?” Isaac wonders.

   _And how to we fix it? How do we stop it from happening again? What the fuck do we do?_

   “I don’t know,” Derek answers, running a hand back through his hair the way he does when he’s struggling to keep himself in control.  “I guess maybe—maybe blocking is too much.  Maybe his mind can’t take this?”

   “He’s been fine ‘til now.”

   “Can you think of anything else that would be triggering this?”

   “No.”

   “And Deaton doesn’t know what it is either.  Great.”

   “If messing with memories triggered it, then how—how do we get him back if you can’t share memories? How do we help him understand the pack?”

   “We can still try to explain, right? I mean, it’ll be confusing, but we can still explain.  It’s only a few hours—maybe a day—right?”

   _This is worse than it’s been before.  He says he doesn’t have any memories.  What if he’s totally fucking reset and we’re back to square one.  What then?_

   “Right,” Isaac answers aloud because it’s what Derek wants to hear and what they both want desperately to believe.

 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Stiles listens to the conversation though he knows it might not be his place.   He can’t help it.  The Alpha is so clearly distressed he _has_ to do something, and he doesn’t know _what._ He takes in the words spoken between the Alpha and the other beta, hoping to understand what he can do to be better, but it’s all so confusing.

   _Why does he talk to the beta like a confidant? What are they worried my mind can’t take? Has this happened before? Am I always this weak? How does he think I’m a good beta if I’m this weak? I should be better. I can be better. I have to be good._

_Memories.   He wants me to have memories, but I can’t find any in my head.  He could give them to me.  Why doesn’t he just give them to me? Does he think I’m too weak to take them? I’m not. I can take it.  I can. It’ll make me better. I want to be better. Can I ask for them?_

   When the Alpha returns still clearly distraught though trying to hide the emotional weakness, Stiles decides the risk of punishment for speaking out of place is worth the chance to ease his Alpha’s unhappiness.

   “Derek, I—I want to learn. I want to—”

   “Thank you, Stiles,” Derek replies, cutting off the request before Stiles can even finish it, “but I—I’m afraid that tampering with your memories is what caused the seizure.  I don’t want that to happen again.”

   _But it wasn’t so bad, Derek. I can take the pain if you’ll teach me.  I want to be good.  Memory pain is better than punishment pain.  Please, Derek._

 “Yes, Derek,” he answers automatically, lacking the courage to push the issue further with the Alpha’s wishes so clear.

   “I know you’re very confused, and I’m going to explain as much as I can, okay?”

   “Yes, Derek. Thank you.”

   _Instructions are good.  Explain what you want from me.  I can be useful. I won’t be a burden. I can be good._

 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   “He still doesn’t really get it,” Derek says quietly.

   He’s on the back porch because even being in the house with Stiles keeps him at attention.  Isaac says he relaxes just a bit with Derek and his unmaskable distress outside so Derek does what he can.  Isaac stays with Stiles in the living room, as they take in a marathon of Chef someone-or-other.

   “It’s only been four hours—it took him six or so at the full moon.  Don’t worry yet.”

   Derek rolls his eyes because all either of them can do is worry.  Across town the rest of the pack and the Sheriff are worrying as they wait for updates.  Inside Stiles worries about what Derek’s explained that he can’t fully grasp.  They’ve all been reduced to nothing but worry, and it’s not going to go away until Stiles is back.

   Derek just doesn’t know how the hell to speed up that process.

   “The full moon,” Isaac continues. “The memories and the explanations didn’t help, but once he went to sleep he woke up as himself.”

   “He also woke up screaming.”

   “I know but if we—would it make us horrible if we gave him medicine?”

   “You want to drug him?”

   “When you say it like that…” Isaac replies, voice trailing off as he looks away guiltily.

   The thing is though, there’s logic in the plan as much as Derek fucking hates it.

   “It’s nearly ten,” Derek says.  “We should get him to bed soon anyway, and he needs to rest well.”

   “But maybe he won’t have nightmares if he doesn’t have memories?”

   “Maybe.”

   _But I’m not banking on us being lucky with anything._

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

  

In the end, they decide to refrain from sedation if they can.  Isaac’s going to share the bed as a preemptive strike against nightmares, and then if Stiles is sleeping poorly they’ll give him a low dose; the important thing is probably that Stiles mind get rest.  At least they’re hoping that’s all it takes. 

Stiles showers first and Isaac second.  When Isaac returns from the bathroom, he finds Stiles in the pajamas as instructed but kneeling at the foot of the bed. 

“Stiles, Derek’s not—Derek doesn’t want—he’s not going to—” Isaac stutters and Stiles face rises, confusion in his eyes.  “Derek’s going to sleep.  He doesn’t want sex from us.”

“What?” Stiles asks, clearly at a loss. 

“Derek doesn’t use us for sex,” Isaac repeats.  “Not ever. We’re just—this is just where we sleep.  That’s all.”

_I know it smells like other stuff, but that’s not going to happen while you’re like this.  Derek told you he didn’t want sex._

“Oh,” Stiles replies quietly.  Another moment passes and then Stiles wonders, “Then do _you_ want—”

“No,” Isaac replies too quickly because if Stiles offers to let Isaac fuck him or any variation therein Isaac is going to be sick.

Stiles nods acceptance, rising slowly to his feet.  He stares at the bed a while as though he’s still trying to reason out how this is all supposed to work. 

“Stiles, I know you’re still trying to understand what Derek told you about how the pack functions.  You know you can always ask questions, right? You can ask me if you don’t want to ask Derek.  I’ll always tell you the truth.  I want you to understand too.”

_Because we’ve explained family.  Told you no one expects sex from you.  We’ve tried to say you’re not earning your place and you’ll never be abandoned._

_It just doesn’t seem like you believe us._

Stiles bites at his lip a moment or two before wondering, “Does he think I’m weak?”

“No, Stiles. He doesn’t.”

“Because I can—I can do more. I can take more lessons. If he’ll teach me again I can—”

“He knows,” Isaac promises, cutting off the assurances because the feeling of sickness in his soul intensifies with every word Stiles utters.   “You’re a good beta, Stiles.  You’re a quick learner.  He doesn’t think you’re weak; you’re the strongest beta in the pack.”

_God you have no fucking idea how strong you are, and we need you to be strong again and pull yourself out because we don’t know what the hell to do._

“But I’m the newest beta.”

“You’re still the strongest.”

The words clearly confuse him, but he questions no further.

 

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   “You’re okay, Stiles. It’s just a bad dream,” Isaac says, rousing him with a slight shake to his shoulder.

   “I’m sorry,” Stiles says automatically.  “I’ll be quieter; I’ll—”

   “I don’t care that you woke me.  I’m not mad.  I just don’t want you to have bad dreams.”

   _Why are you trying so hard to be good to me? You’re a higher beta, the highest in the pack; the only one you have to be good to is the Alpha._

“I’m okay. Thank you.”

   “Stiles there’s—we have medicine for you.  It helps with the nightmares.  You’ll be able to sleep better.”

   “I’m okay.”

   _I’m not weak. I’m okay._

   “You’ve got to get good rest if your memories are going to come back. Let me give you something.”

   The words seem like a trap.

   _What if I sleep too well? I’ve had plenty of sleep already; it doesn’t take much. What if the Alpha wakes and calls for something and I don’t obey? What if he gives me a chance to be useful and I can’t because I’m too sleepy? He’ll think I’m lazy. He’ll think I’m bad.  I’ll get punished._

_But what if Isaac’s right? What if I can’t get memories until I get enough rest? Derek wants so badly for me to have memories._

The beta’s rising from the bed now.  Stiles flinches just a bit at the unexpected movement. 

   “If I go get the medicine, will you take it?” he wonders.

   _Well I can’t very well stop you, can I?_  he thinks so he nods.

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Isaac tries not to panic when Stiles still doesn’t wake as himself.  He tries not to panic through the morning as they realize how little of yesterday’s explanations overwrote any conditioning.  He tries not to panic when Derek gets so worried that he tries giving memories after all.

   But his resolve is all but crumbling as the fourth memory Derek shares still doesn’t trigger Stiles’ return and he gushes apologies.

   “It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek promises.  “It’s not your fault.  They’ll come back eventually. Don’t worry.”

   _Please God let them come back soon.  Not eventually. Soon. Before we lose our fucking minds._

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   He’d hoped the Alpha would allow him to make breakfast, but they’d all eaten cereal; the Alpha had given him two bowls, and he was so _sure_ some task equal to the gift would be asked of him. Instead Derek just tells him to watch television a while longer and to do anything he wants. He just wants to do something that will please the Alpha, so he pays rapt attention as the chef in the show explains the best way to make chicken marsala, assuming he’ll be called upon when the Alpha wants lunch. 

   But lunchtime comes and Isaac just makes sandwiches for all of them.  Again Derek gives Stiles much more than he possibly could have earned, and again he’s given no task to properly show his gratitude.  Derek says it will be good to spend some time outside with Isaac.  He says to swing if Stiles wants to and not to shift or show aggression to any humans he might hear or see over the fence.  He follows Isaac out the back door, ever obedient.

   _But obedience isn’t enough.  I need to be useful.  How can I be useful?_

_Why won’t you tell me how to be useful?_

 

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

    

 “How about now?” Derek asks once it’s clear Stiles has processed what seems like the millionth memory since he woke still in his conditioned state.  They’re just a few hours shy of the 24-hour point.   “Any new memories?”  
   He knows the answer from the tears of misery rising in Stiles eyes even before Stiles apologizes, “No, Derek, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek replies, forcing a smile.  “It’s not your fault.”

“Thank you, Derek,” Stiles whimpers, still fighting back tears.

Derek turns his back to Stiles for just a moment, running a weary hand down his face as he tries to control the terror building in him at the idea that Stiles might not be coming back and they’re going to have to start over from the beginning. 

_God, Stiles please snap out of it.  Come back.  We’ll go from square one if we have to but Jesus Christ once was enough-for all of us, and if we can’t get your own memories back—it’s gonna—it’s gonna be a long fucking road._

He hears the dull thud as Stiles goes to his knees behind him and tries to ignore the feeling of despair that jolts through him at the sound.

“Please, Derek, please let me try another way to be useful. _Please,”_ Stiles beseeches, voice barely a whisper.

By the sound of it, he seems sure he’s speaking out of place.  It says volumes about how distraught he is that he’ll ask for anything, even a chance to serve. 

“I can be more useful; I promise. I can do better. I can make it up to you that I can’t get the memories. _Please,_ Derek, let me make it up to you. Please let me try. I’ll do _anything_ you’ll let me, Derek. _Please._ ”

Derek hates himself for the dejection he can’t mask as he turns back to Stiles because Stiles whines at the sight.

“I’m sorry, Derek. So sorry. I’m _trying_ to find the memories but I—”

“It’s okay,” Derek promises, kneeling in front of Stiles. 

  Stiles curls in on himself even more as Derek comes closer.  The tears streaming down Stiles’ face are splashing onto the hardwood floor with a plop, and it seems a deafening sound to Derek.  He wants to lay comforting hands on Stiles’ shoulders, but he knows Stiles would shudder at the touch.

“I know you’re trying,” Derek says. “I know it’s confusing for you.  It’s okay.  It doesn’t make you a burden.  You’re never a burden, Stiles. You’re a good beta, a very good beta.”

“Thank you, Derek,” he chokes out

   And even though he hates himself for playing into the idea that Stiles has to earn his place, he knows what this conditioned Stiles wants—what he _needs_ by the look of it—and the verbal explanations and memories haven’t been enough to settle Stiles’ anxiety.  Derek can’t bear to keep watching it build, adding to Derek’s distress which in turn adds back to Stiles’ anguish—a vicious cycle he doesn’t know how else to break.

   “There is something you can do,” Derek says finally.

   “Anything, Derek.  _Anything_ please.”

   “Can you—” Derek fights back the queasy feeling at using Stiles’ moment of weakness like this. 

_It’s what he needs. It’s not taking advantage. It’s what he wants. It’s what will calm him down and lessen the fear._

“There are ingredients for pasta in the pantry,” he starts again.  “Can you make dinner?”

   “Yes, Derek! Yes, I can make dinner,” he answers, relief and hope flooding into his face so completely that Derek’s already broken heart is shattering. “Thank you, Derek!”

   He rises quickly and scurries to the pantry clearly elated to have a task.  Derek rises as well, simultaneously berating himself both for giving into this and for not giving in sooner.  He notices Stiles hesitation as he stands looking at the pantry shelves.

   “Do you have a question, Stiles?” he prompts.

   “I’m sorry, Derek. I—there’s more than one kind of pasta here. I don’t—I don’t know which you prefer. I can’t remember; I’m sorry, Derek.”

   Stiles still seems to think Derek wants him to have memories back for the sake of utility, keeps apologizing that he hasn’t memorized Derek’s likes and dislikes and can’t predict his every whim. 

   “It’s okay, Stiles. Just—make—make ziti,” he requests, knowing Stiles’ favorite.  “You know how to make that?”

   “Yes, Derek. I can make it. Thank you, Derek.”

   “Thank _you,_ Stiles.  I appreciate it.”

   “I’m glad to, Derek. Anything.”

   Derek runs a weary hand down his face as he walks to the den to join Isaac on the sofa.  Isaac threads their fingers together and forces a smile.

   “I didn’t know what else to do,” Derek admits quietly.

   “You did the right thing, Derek,” Isaac assures.  “It’ll calm him down.”

   _But it won’t bring him back._

_How do we get him back?_

  

*********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   “You did a great job with dinner,” Isaac tells Stiles again as they finish washing up and head back to the den.

   “Thank you,” Stiles replies quietly.

   “Hey, what’s wrong?”

   _You were happy at dinner.  You were smiling and everything when Derek told you how good it was.  You even kept your head up a while.  What happened?_

“He’s unhappy.  It keeps getting worse—even after I was useful and made dinner he wasn’t any happier.”

   His eyes glance over to the back door Derek left through just a few moments ago, headed for a run to clear his head and try to get his emotions in check.

   “I know, but it’s not your fault, Stiles. He’s okay.”

   “Our Alpha’s unhappy,” Stiles says again like maybe Isaac didn’t hear him properly.  “He’s angry and sad and disappointed and, and _so_ unhappy. We have to—we have to fix it before—” He stops himself before he finishes the sentence.  “We have to fix it,” he repeats instead.

   “He’s not going to start punishing us.”

   “He’s not going to have a choice! Good betas keep their alphas happy; bad betas don’t, and bad betas _must_ be punished.  We have to fix it.”

   _We have to fix it all right,_ Isaac thinks sadly as he tries not to lose his composure.  _Just not what you think needs fixing._       

   “I don’t remember enough to know what to do,” Stiles continues.  “I’m not sure if he’d rather—”

   “All he wants is for you to be happy,” Isaac tries to explain again. 

   “I’m happy serving the pack, but that didn’t make him happy.  I don’t know what else he likes us to do. He won’t tell me.  Am I—am I supposed to figure it out myself? Is it a test?”

   “No, Stiles, it’s not a test.”

_There’re only so many ways I can explain that you don’t have to earn your place.  How the hell do we make you understand?_

“He just—he’s worried you won’t get your memories back, but even if you don’t it’s okay.  He’ll just keep adding to the ones you have until you understand.”

“But I can’t—I can’t figure out how to get the memories back.  There has to be something else that would make him happy. Are you sure he doesn’t like—”

“Stiles, it’s really okay.”

“No it’s not,” he counters resolutely, “and we have to fix it.”

“Stiles, please don’t worry.”

“If I—if I admit weakness again so soon, what will he do?” Stiles wonders. 

“Admit weakness?”

Stiles is getting frustrated now, as tired of explaining his thoughts to Isaac as Isaac is of trying to make Stiles understand the pack.

“Yes, weakness, like not knowing how to make up for being slow to get memories and needing to ask about pasta and his drink for dinner, if I admit again that I need more directions to make him happy, what happens?”

_You’re debating if asking him a question is worth the punishment? What the fuck, Stiles? How many times can we say there’re no punishments?_

“Jesus Christ, Stiles, _nothing_. He’s never going to hurt you. He doesn’t like hurting us.  He doesn’t want to hurt us.”

There’s a spark of understanding on Stiles face, and Isaac sags in relief until Stiles face transforms into a carefully collected mask.

  

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

  

   _He doesn’t like hurting us. He doesn’t want to hurt us._

The words replay in Stiles’ mind and it clicks, _finally_ clicks and the relief is so great it almost overshadows the idea of imminent pain. 

   _He doesn’t like hurting us.  It was a clue, an instruction.  I just didn’t see it.  How could I be so blind and stupid? They’ve told me dozens of times.  He doesn’t like to hurt us so we should know when we’ve been bad, to punish ourselves so he won’t have to. It’s a test to see if I can figure out what he wants even without the memories.  He’s so unhappy because I keep disappointing him but never give myself punishment and soon he’ll have to step in himself because bad betas have to be punished.  He just doesn’t want to take the trouble of teaching us himself.  I have to teach myself.  I have to make myself better. That way he doesn’t have to be the one to do it.  It makes sense now._

_I can do this for him.  I can.  I can be good._

He doesn’t know where the knowledge comes from, but he’s sure he knows where to start, knows which places bring the most blood, which bring the most pain.  He doesn’t know which Derek prefers though—another failure in not having enough memories to know his Alpha.  He decides to split the wounds evenly between the two options. 

   “Thank you, Isaac,” he says distractedly as he plans his next moves.  “I understand what to do now.”

   “Stiles?” Isaac calls as Stiles walks away toward the kitchen.

   _The tile in the kitchen will be easiest to clean after.  There’s a knife block by the stove—no, best to use claws, knives tear too cleanly.  I’ve been bad for a while now.  It’s going to take a lot.  Will shredding be enough? Will he want bones to break? Burns? But burns won’t bleed enough—best to save that until he comes home and I understand if he wants pain or blood._

He settles himself in the center of the kitchen floor.

“Stiles, are you okay?” Isaac asks as he comes around the corner.

“Yes, Isaac,” Stiles replies calmly, letting his claws extend.  “I can be good,” he assures sinking all fives points into his skin and raking them up his arm. 

In the next instant, the other beta’s leaping at him with a scream of protest.  Stiles doesn’t dare fight back, and Isaac easily pins him.

“Isaac, please, please let me go. I have to be good. I have to be better. He’ll be back soon and—”

As if on cue the back door opens and the Alpha rushes in. 

“I tried, Derek.  I tried,” Stiles promises.  “I know what to do now, but Isaac won’t—”

“What happened to your arm?”

“I think he’s trying to punish himself,” Isaac answers before Stiles can.

“I can, Derek,” Stiles swears. “I can. I can be good.  I can be better.  Blood or pain or whatever I deserve for—”

“Stop,” Derek begs, really begs like he’s the one in pain.

Stiles looks at him fully then, needing to understand why the Alpha sounds so distraught, though it sends a burst of terror through him to stare directly at his Alpha’s face.  When he sees that tears have started to fall from Derek’s eyes, he can’t stop the sob that escapes him.

_No, no, no. This was supposed to make it better. I was going to fix it.  I was going to make you happy, Derek.  How did I fuck it up? How did I make it worse? I’m sorry, Derek, so fucking sorry. Please teach me. Tell me what to do.  I want to be good. I want you to be happy. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do._

“Stiles! Stiles, look at me!” the Alpha commands.  “Don’t _ever_ hurt yourself for the pack, you understand? When I say no punishments I mean not _ever,_ not from me or the other betas or yourself.  You are not allowed to hurt yourself.”

“Please, Derek, please tell me how to make you happy I don’t _understand_. I’m so sorry, Derek. Teach me, please!”

“Okay,” Derek agrees, “okay, Stiles, I’ll teach you. It’s okay.”

   “Thank you, Derek, thank you.”

  

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Derek holds it together while they help Stiles slow the bleeding until it heals.  He holds it together while he explains that he needs some time to figure out the lessons.  He holds it together as he gives Stiles the sedative and lays him back on the couch.

   And then he can’t hold himself together any longer.  It’s too much.  Stiles isn’t improving. He doesn’t understand.  The last time Derek saw him anywhere near this bad was when he witnessed Peter’s death.  He’s realizing that this is the mental state Stiles must have been in those first days back with the pack.  He’s realizing that whatever semblance of adaptation and control Stiles had came form Peter and his lies and abuse and manipulation.  Watching the Food Network isn’t enough.  Explaining about the Pack being family isn’t enough.  Letting Stiles cook dinner isn’t enough.  But Derek doesn’t know what the hell else they’re supposed to do.

   Every inch of him aches to fix Stiles.   He’s pissed at the alphas, frustrated with himself, terrified of losing Stiles, worried as hell about Isaac going through this too, and goddammit he can only take so fucking much.  He’s out the back door again before he even makes the decision to leave.

   “Derek, wait!” Isaac cries after him; he sounds terrified and pitiful and Derek can’t help but stop and turn.  “Don’t—I don’t—please don’t leave. I’m gonna go crazy here with him by myself I just—I know neither of us know what to do but I—”

   “I’ll stay,” he interrupts.  “I’m sorry.” _I shouldn’t even think about leaving you to deal with this alone._ “I’ll stay. Of course I’ll stay.”

   “He shredded his own arm, Derek,” Isaac says quietly as Derek comes up to join him on the porch.  “We’ve promised and promised you weren’t going to hurt him—that he’s safe here—and he still—”

   “We’ll just have to keep telling him,” Derek answers, pulling Isaac in close. “It’ll be okay.”

   “What if we don’t get him back?”

   “Then we’ll start over.”

   “But that—it’ll be different, and he’s already so confused and—”

   “Whatever it takes,” Derek says firmly. “However long it takes.  We’ll get him back.”

   _We have to.  We’re the ones who kept urging him to block memories.  I’m the one who didn’t think about the repercussions of toying with a damaged mind.  We’re not going to lose him because I was too much of an eager idiot to take it slower._

“Go for a run if you need,” Isaac says.  “Sorry I—”

   “No, it’s okay. You were right I can’t just run; that’s what I fucking did before—running to Deaton’s and leaving him with Peter—not that you’re Peter. I just mean—”

   “You’ve got to go get yourself together,” Isaac says.  “The more tense you are, the worse he gets.  If that means you need a run, I can suck it up while you’re gone.  It’s okay.”

   “Isaac—”

   “It’s okay, Derek. Go.”

   _You shouldn’t have to suck it up.  You shouldn’t have to be the calm one. Every time something goes wrong with him, you’re the one who holds it together and I’m the one who either makes it worse or runs.  How do you not hate me for that?_

“It’s okay,” Isaac says again, pressing a quick kiss to Derek’s lips.  “Quicker you go, the quicker you’re back.”   

 

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Isaac watches Stiles asleep on the couch and tries not to look at the arm that’s now unblemished but gushed blood in the kitchen a mere half hour ago. 

   _How do we help you? What do we do? I need you back, Stiles.  We both need you back.  It has to be the three of us._

As he sits here battling the crushing feelings of helplessness and hopelessness, he wishes he hadn’t sent Derek on that run.  It’s a selfish thought; he knows Derek needed it.  He’s so damaged in so many ways, more from the pain he inflicted on himself in six years of guilt than anything else—guilt that carries over into everything else and leaves him feeling responsible for anything and everything that goes wrong.  He puts too much weight on his shoulders, but Isaac doesn’t know how to get him to stop. 

   When Derek returns, they try to go to bed, knowing Stiles won’t wake until morning.  In the end, neither can sleep and they go back downstairs, turning on the television to the horrible 2AM infomercials.  They’re sharing a recliner; Isaac’s basically in Derek’s lap, head on his shoulder and fingers intertwined as they doze.  Even in sleep, Derek holds on like Isaac’s a lifeline.  He knows how terrified Derek is of losing anyone else; at least Stiles is alive and healthy—physically anyway—it’s something they can work with.

   _Derek’s right. We’ll just keep trying, and if we have to start over, then we’ll start over._       

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   When Stiles wakes, the sun is shining brightly through the windows. Derek’s there in the arm chair across from the sofa.  Stiles scrambles off the couch to his knees, movements sluggish from the lingering sedation but eager to show Derek how grateful he is for the promise to teach.  Derek rises as Stiles kneels. 

   “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says as he walks over slowly.  “Can you get to your feet, please?”

   “Yes, Derek.”

   “I want you to cook.  Do you need Isaac to teach you?”

   “No, Derek; I can cook.  I can cook anything. Whatever you—”

   “Everything is in the kitchen. Make scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee.  Isaac will be there if you have any questions.  Don’t hurt yourself anymore, understand?”

   “Yes, Derek; thank you, Derek.”

   He hurries to the kitchen, fetching all the items as quickly as he can, shaking his head against the haze of the medicine lingering in his system. He wonders what lessons Derek will teach after this, what he should be ready for; whatever it is he’ll show Derek he can learn.  He’ll show Derek he can be pliant and obedient and useful.  Even if he can’t get the memories back, the lessons will make him better, more useful.

   And then Derek will be happy.

   _Please, please, let it make Derek happy.  Let him see that I’ll learn how to be a better beta as quick as I can even if I can’t get the memories.  Please let it make Derek happy._ _Just for a little while._

   Derek smiles when Stiles tells him the food is ready.  He smiles as he fixes his plate. He compliments the quality of the food as he starts to eat.  There’s something off, something wrong, though Stiles can’t quite identify what.  At least Derek’s not as unhappy as yesterday.   He’s calmer, and Stiles hopes it’s because he’s being better.  Maybe after the other lessons Derek’s smile will be right.

   _I’m so sorry I make you unhappy, Derek. I promise I’ll try to be good._

  

******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   One second Stiles is by the table, waiting for Derek to block a memory and the next he’s washing dishes in the kitchen sink.  The plate slips out of his hand in surprise.  He doesn’t understand the crushing sense of anxiety that envelops him, every muscle clenching as he struggles to even draw breath, terror running rampant through his mind.   There are firm hands on his shoulders, and he anchors himself to the steadying feeling.  It takes a moment more for Isaac’s voice to break through. 

   “It’s okay, Stiles; I promise it’s okay.  The plate doesn’t matter. You’re not in trouble. No punishments in this pack.  It’s okay.  Just breathe.  No one’s gonna hurt you. Don’t hurt yourself.  Just breathe.”

   “What—the fuck—is—happening, Isaac?” he gasps out as he fights to get air.

   “What did you say?”

   “What—what the hell’s going on? I just—I thought I was in the dining room. Derek was going to block a memory and—”

   His words choke off as Isaac wraps him in a crushing embrace. 

   “Dude, breathing’s kinda nice,” Stiles tells him finally, and Isaac loosens the hold but doesn’t let go. 

   “Sorry—just—we—we were scared we’d lost you again,” Isaac answers, voice nearly breaking.

   “Lost me?”

   “You don’t remember anything?”

   “Anything about what?”

   “You said you remember waiting for the memory block?” Isaac asks.

   “Yeah.”

   “That was the night before last, Stiles.”

   _Well, shit._

“So what the fuck happened between then and now?”

   “Your conditioned self,” Isaac replies.  “No matter how we tried to explain it or what memories Derek gave you, we couldn’t get you back. We—”

   “Hey,” Stiles interrupts, tightening the hug again as Isaac’s words get progressively frantic.  “I’m back; I’m okay.  You didn’t lose me.”

   _But I gotta figure out how the fuck to make sure it stays that way.  Almost two days? What the fuck?_

   The back door opens and Derek hesitates at the sight of them, taking in the scene with a hopeful look transforming his face.  Stiles smiles in greeting.

   “Hey, Derek. Sorry I—”

   “Don’t,” Derek pleads with a look like Stiles sucker punched him.  “Don’t apologize, Stiles. I can’t stand hearing you apologize anymore. I—”

Isaac’s emotional, but keeping it more or less in check; Derek’s visibly _wrecked_.  Stiles pulls Isaac with him to get to Derek. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m fine. I’m back,” he consoles grabbing Derek’s hand as Derek starts to turn away.  “I’m all right. I’m not going anywhere; you’re not gonna lose me, Derek. I swear.”

   “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he answers quietly, pressing a quick kiss to Stiles’ temple before he’s back out the door and headed for the tree line.

   “I really scared him,” Stiles realizes, “both of you,” he amends with a guilty look to Isaac.

   “He’s okay,” Isaac says.  “You know how he gets.  He’ll be back once he has a minute to clear his head.”

   “What about you?” Stiles asks, studying the weariness in Isaac’s face.  “You okay?”

   “Yeah, of course; it’s just been—it was kidna stressful.”

   “I’m sorry; I—”

   “Please don’t,” Isaac interrupts.  “I’m with Derek on this one; I can’t stand to hear you apologize anymore. Let’s—can we just do something normal? Something _you_?”

   “Milkshakes and Risk it is,” Stiles agrees with a smile.  “You grab the ice cream and I’ll dig the game out of the closet.”

   “Sounds good.”         

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   Isaac, Derek, and Stiles all sit on the couch.  Morrell’s across from them, here because Deaton thinks her experience is more useful to this diagnosis.  Scott’s in the chair next to her, showing up within five minutes of being told Stiles was back.

   “So what do you think is happening?” Stiles asks at the end of the long explanation.   “Is it—I mean I googled shit and there’s like a billion possible things but none of them fit exactly right—I mean there’s PTSD of course but then like are we looking at Dissociative Identity—”

   “Psychology is a very subjective medical field,” she interrupts, voice ever-calm despite how flustered Stiles is; he tries not to hate her for always maintaining the smooth intonation.  “Your case is particularly unusual.  You’re not going to find any clinical information on the effects of memory manipulation due to Alpha werewolf interference.”

   “Yeah, I know. I just—I want to know what the fuck’s happening, and how bad it can get and if I can make it stop or make it better or—”

   “The mind is a fragile thing, and yours has been through quite a lot, Stiles.”

   “Tell me something I don’t know.”

   “The mind is also resilient.  It finds ways to cope and heal even after significant damage.”

   “Are you saying you think it’ll get better?” Isaac asks. “Or just that these things—the episodes or whatever—are a way of coping?”

   “I believe both may be true.”

   “How does turning me back into a quaking ball of fear help my mind?” Stiles challenges.

   “I can only speculate; it’s not an exact—”

   “Then speculate,” Derek barks. 

   “It’s perhaps no different from a state of catatonia; sometimes seizures or other mental trauma can brings on catatonic or fugue states, but, after the intense conditioning, I doubt your mind would be able to shut down entirely.  It’s been engrained into you that your survival is dependent upon those three main rules they taught you.  When everything else retreats, your mind still clings to those ideas—nothing matters but pack, be useful, know your place—in an attempt to stay vigilant and alive.”

   “That—that—kind of makes a lot of sense actually,” Stiles agrees.

   “So is it psychosomatic or an actual seizure?” Scott asks. 

   “From what you’ve told me, I think it may be both, one triggering the other though it’s hard to say which comes first.”

“So you’re sure I’m not like—literally turning into two people?” he asks, voicing his biggest fear.  “I’m not literally splitting into the wretch and the real me?”

   “I don’t think so, no, or the present you would start to show a lack of memory to the trauma—that’s typically the motivation behind a mind dissociating, to try and channel all of the trauma into one person so the other can exist without it.  You face your trauma well, Stiles.  I think this has more to do with the mental manipulation and the forced amnesia.”

   “Oh.”

   “But nothing I say is definitive; we can only guess.”

   “Is it something we can treat? Or help him with or something?” Isaac asks.

   “You know as well as I do that human medications don’t work on wolves,” she says.

   “But werewolves don’t have seizures,” Derek argues.  “The bite cured Erica.  It—”

   “Well, she did have one when the kanima attacked the library,” Stiles reminds.

   “She was poisoned.”

   “Yes and when a werewolf’s body is subjected to enough abuse, the supernatural powers begin to wane and human weakness sets it.  The poison didn’t cause the seizure; it just weakened her abilities enough to make one possible. It’s why you don’t heal anymore once you reach a certain point of injury.  That’s an acute example, but chronic head trauma could perhaps weaken the brain until it’s susceptible to more human reactions to stress.”

   Stiles tries not to, but his mind flashes through countless blows to the head, the all too familiar sound of his skull cracking against walls and floors and tables ringing in his ears.  He winces just a little, and Isaac’s hand squeezes his in reassurance.

   “Again, I’m just theorizing here.  There is no definitive answer for this,” Morrell reminds them.

   “So will it get worse from here?” Stiles wonders or better.

   “It could go either way.  Human seizures tend to worsen with time, but you’re not a human.  I think as you recover and work through your lingering issues the psychosomatic stress may lessen and the long-term damage to your brain may recover steadily.  I would hope the episodes would become less frequent.  Keep in mind you’ve only had one, so it may be that this isn’t even very common now.  It could be weeks, months—years even—before you have another.”

   _I don’t know how much I trust our luck on that one._

“So what’s our best chance to keep the episodes from happening?” Derek asks.

 “I would suggest you try to keep your stress to a minimum, Stiles.  Don’t push yourself too hard.”

   “So basically what I’m already doing.”

   “There’s no easy fix for what you’ve been through, Stiles,” she reminds gently.  “The key is to just keep making progress.”

   “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he replies with a shrug.  _Baby steps and all that._   “I’ve just never been much for patience.”

   “You realize all the progress you’ve made in just a few months?”

   “Yeah, I know.  Honestly still kind of amazed I’m not just a mumbling lunatic in a padded cell somewhere.”

   “I also think that it would be unwise to continue blocking old memories.”

   “Yeah, I figured.”

   “If there’s anything particularly problematic—”

   “Derek’s taken plenty already. I’ll be fine.”

   _The only ones worth the risk are the ones I still can’t tell them._

  

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   “So I—” Stiles starts, breaking the silence once Morrell has left and Scott’s gone to work.  “I think maybe we should—uh—we should talk about what happens when I—when I regress or whatever.”

   “Sure,” Isaac replies, unsure what else to say.

   _You never want to talk about that._

“It’s—uh—it’s maybe different with this, with the seizure thing, because I don’t remember those, but the other regressions. I know what was going through my head then so I’m just—gonna assume that’s close enough?”

“Okay.”

“When I can’t get back to the memories right away—it’s just—it’s like the reset button I guess? It’s like back to factory settings—like I mean I can tell it’s pack and you’re the Alpha and feel the bonds and everything. But still—still pretty much just training and just _knowing_ things without actual memory or identity or anything.”

   “Just training,” Isaac repeats, “So like—like the rules they taught you? Like—” he wants to repeat them but can’t quite manage it.

   “You know the full versions,” he says, “the shit I repeat when it gets bad.  It boils down to three things, like Morrell was saying before—we’ve talked about all the rules and stuff kinda—and anyway, it’s pretty much just: only the pack matters, always be useful, and remember your place—that’s it.  That’s what makes sense; it’s the rules that govern every single thought and event that happens after the reset.”

   “It’s just inherent?”

   “Yeah, it’s just—fucking like seared into my brain and nothing makes it go away.”

   “Which is why the explanations never make sense I think?” Stiles says.  “I mean like with the full moon one anyway.  I could look back at it later and understand, but, at the time, with the rules in my head, I didn’t have the capacity to _really_ absorb anything outside of them.  Does that make sense? Kind of at least?”

   “Mostly.”

   “And so I think—I think if we—if we kind of accept that I can’t—I can’t handle the explanations you try because they just don’t—they don’t fit into that and if we maybe just let me—just play along with those rules until—”

   “Play along with those rules?” Derek repeats incredulously.

   “Well yeah, I mean—it’s not like you’re going to hurt me if I break them—and you can tell me that—as many times as you want—and then just—just make me feel like I’m abiding those rules; that’s all it’ll take to keep me calm I think.”

   “Stiles—”

   “I know you don’t like it; I know you want to explain every time but—it doesn’t—I just think maybe this would be easier for everybody,” he says.  “If I’m not back in 24 hours, then you can start trying memories and explaining and all that, but if they’re just going to be episodes, just bad days, then all you have to do is be nice to me and give me things to stay busy. It’s not that hard.”

   “It’s not _right._ ”

   “Which sounds worse to you,” he interrupts, not relenting on his argument. “Ten hours of me freaking out in silence and being terrified because I can’t figure out what my alpha wants or ten hours of contentedly cleaning or cooking and feeling like I’m doing something right in a pack that’s good?  If you don’t give me things to do, all I do is worry that I’m going to get punished or left or—just—just _please_ trust me on this.  It’s not you two using me.  It’s helping me.  And if you don’t want to watch me deal with it or be subservient or whatever, that’s fine, just tell me what to do and then leave; I won’t go anywhere without permission.  You could—”

   “We’re not leaving you when you’re like that.”

   “Then just _help_ me bide time until I surface again. I know you don’t like me not understanding, but when I’m back to conditioning like that, you trying to teach a lesson I can’t grasp just makes everything worse. Just play into the rules and keep me busy.” 

   “That’s what we were doing,” Isaac admits, “You got to a point where—where we didn’t know what else to do.”

   “Did it work?”

   “Mostly.”

   “See? Just—just do that first,” Stiles requests. “Just go with it.  You don’t need to kill yourselves trying to explain things I can’t understand when I’m like that.  It’s got to frustrate the hell out of you.  I may not remember everything that happened the past couple of days, but I know the crippling anxiety I got slammed with when I snapped back.  Let’s at least try just going with it? Please? Just be nice and give me things to do.  Keep it simple.  Simple is better. Simple helps.”

   Words that seem to come from another lifetime play in Isaac’s mind and put a sick feeling in his gut: _I was so confused…I didn’t understand…Peter gave me something simple._

   “Okay,” Isaac agrees.  “If this is how we help you, then tell us what to say.  Tell us what makes sense in the parameters of the conditioning.”

 

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   It’s three weeks before the plans they made and requests Stiles voiced about how they’ll handle bad days even come into play.  They’re just waking up.  He gets out a word or two of warning.  Isaac catches him as he falls, laying him back in the middle of the bed.  All they can do is watch helplessly as he starts seizing.  It doesn’t last quite so long this time, but it still seems to be an eternity of hearing his whimpering before he goes silent.

   “Stiles?” Derek says, sitting slowly on the bed as the beta’s eyes open again.  He knows Stiles is gone when his eyes widen in alarm and dart down.

_Here we go._

   “Stiles?” He doesn’t respond to the name, and Derek’s gut clenches as he tries, “beta?”

   “Yes, Alpha?”

   “Do you know where you are?”

   “With the pack, Alpha, nothing matters but the pack. I’m here. I can be a good beta I—”

   “I know,” Derek interrupts.  “You’re a very good beta.”

   There’s a hint of a hopeful smile on Stiles’ lips, and Derek counts his victories where he can.

   “Do you remember anything?”

   “No, Alpha. I’m sorry, but I know how to be good. I know—”

   “I believe you.  I know you can be good. You’re not new to this pack, Stiles.  You just have seizures sometimes.  It makes you forget things, but that’s okay.  You still know the important things.  You’re still good.”

   Every word from his mouth are things Stiles told him to say—phrases to repeat, points to emphasize, it’s all what Stiles requested, practically making a script for them—but the reassurances, fortifying principles the alphas taught him, still leave a sour taste in his mouth.

   “Thank you, Alpha.”

   “Call me Derek okay? You don’t have to call me Alpha, and we call you Stiles.  This is Isaac.”

   “Yes, Derek.”

   “I’m going to get up, okay? I’m not going to hurt you.  Just stay here while I get dressed and get some clothes for you.”

   “Yes, Derek.”

   Stiles flinches only slightly as Derek moves.  Isaac’s getting dressed too.  Derek pulls his own jeans and t-shirt from the dresser first before finding something for Stiles.  He places them at the foot of the bed and steps back.

   “Those are for you. Can you put them on?”

   “Yes, Derek,” Stiles replies, hurrying to obey.

   “Good, Stiles,” Derek says when Stiles stands fully dressed.  “Will you come down to the kitchen with us? No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe here. There’re no punishments in this pack.”

   “Yes, Derek, thank you.”

   He follows dutifully behind Derek, head down and body tensed.  Derek beckons him over to the pantry.  

   “You can have any of the cereals you want,” he tells Stiles.  “I’ve got mine on the table already. These’re all for the betas.  ”

“All of them?”

   “Yeah, Derek’s good to his betas,” Isaac tells him.  “He lets us have anything we want.”

   Stiles is looking for the trick in the words, but, in the end, he ignores the sugary options and reaches for the cheerios that only the sheriff usually eats.  He looks uncertainly at Derek.

   “Good, Stiles,” Derek tells him.  “Take it, and go sit at the table please.”

   “Yes, Derek.”

   Derek grabs the milk while Isaac pulls his own box of cereal out and grabs spoons and bowls.  Stiles sits stiffly at the table, biting his lower lip as he continues to study Derek as though waiting for the moment it all goes to hell. 

   “We’re going to eat breakfast,” Derek says.  “You can have as many bowls of cereal as you want.  When we’re all done, we’ll talk about what you’ll do today, okay?”

   “Yes, Derek. Thank you.”

   “You’re welcome, Stiles.”

Stiles eats quickly but is careful not to make any mess at all, drinking the milk to the last drop and moving immediately to wash his bowl.  Derek’s transported back to breakfast in the apartment months ago, and he hates the feeling.  He’s better at keeping himself in check these days at least, and he buries the anger and sadness as best he can.  Stiles hesitates as he reaches for Derek’s empty bowl.

   “May I—may I take it, Derek?”

   “Yes, please, Stiles. Thank you.”

   “I’m glad to help, Derek.”

   While he’s rinsing the dishes, Derek gets the list Stiles compiled himself of tasks he’ll want to do.

   _See. It’s not even you telling me what to do,_ Stiles had said as he wrote out the list.  _It’s me telling myself what to do. I just won’t know it.  It’ll be good Derek. It’ll be fine.  You won’t be taking advantage—either of you.  You’ll be helping._

The memory of the words doesn’t erase the guilt of the present moment, but it lessens it slightly.

  

*********************************************************************************************************************************

 

   “You have choices in this pack,” Derek explains as he places the paper before Stiles.  “These are several things that need to be done, and you decide what you want to do to help, okay?”

   “Yes, Derek.”

   “There’s no wrong answer.  All the tasks are equally important to me, understand?”

   “Yes, Derek.”

   “Take as long as you want to decide; Isaac will show you where the supplies you need are once you choose.”

   “Thank you, Derek.”

   He stares at the list of tasks—easy tasks, tasks that won’t hurt him or anyone or anything—willing to do them all and marveling that he gets to decide the order.  The Alpha has no preference and so Stiles gets to have one.  It’s a giddy sense of freedom, and he feels his lips turn up in a small smile he can’t keep hidden.

   “Any of them?” he asks Isaac, just to be sure.

   “Anything,” Isaac confirms with a smile.

   _Make a meal_ the list says.  _Protein. Three vegetables. One starch. Two sweets._

“I’m good at cooking,” he shares, “but this doesn’t say which foods I should—”

   “Derek doesn’t buy any food he doesn’t like,” Isaac replies.  “You can make anything you want to fit the list. He doesn’t have a preference.”

   “You’re sure?”

   “Positive.  If he had one, he’d put it on the list.”

   “Oh,” Stiles says with a nod, understanding the logic.

   “So you want to make lunch?” Isaac says.  “That’s a big enough task for the morning.  You can choose another one after.”

   “I could do more; it won’t take me long to—”

   “He doesn’t want you tired or rushed,” Isaac replies.  “Cooking is enough.  If he wants you to do another task, he’ll tell you to pick the next one. No punishments in this pack, remember? There’re no punishments. He doesn’t like us afraid or unhappy. If he wants you to behave differently or do more, he’ll just tell you.”

   “Oh.”

   “He knows we’re quick learners.”

   “Yes, I can learn; I’m good at rules and directions. I can always remember.”

   “I know.  You’re a good beta, Stiles.”

   He grins shyly at the praise.

   “Come on; I’ll give you the tour of the kitchen.”

 

************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   It’s hard to feel bad about this when Stiles is cooking in the kitchen with a small smile on his face, humming ‘Good Day, Sunshine’ quietly with the radio Isaac turned on for him earlier.  As much as Derek hates that Stiles doesn’t understand he can do more and never be afraid and just be _himself_ , he has to admit this is infinitely more peaceful than the usual regression days, especially the last one.  He just hopes Stiles still comes back without any attempts at convincing.

   _Twenty-four hours. We promised to play along for twenty-four hours._

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   He makes the desserts first.  It won’t matter if they’re no longer warm when the Alpha’s ready to eat.  He disturbs the Alpha just long enough to ask what time everything should be ready, but the Alpha doesn’t mind the intrusion—no reprimand for not anticipating the Alpha’s wants, no punishment for bothering him—just smiles at his beta and answers the question.

   “It was good of you to ask, Stiles; thank you.”

   _It was good of you._

_I’m a good beta._

“I’m glad to, Derek. Thank you.”

   He goes back to the kitchen, overwhelmed for just a moment at all the possibilities and the fact he’s supposed to choose on his own.

   _Derek doesn’t buy any food he doesn’t like.  You can make anything you want to fit the list. He doesn’t have a preference. If he had one, he’d put it on the list._

He chooses carefully, things he can make best, brazenly choosing his own favorites since the Alpha doesn’t seem to mind and daring to hope he’ll be allowed to have some when the Alpha is finished.  Derek comes back into the kitchen as Stiles pulls the chops from the oven.  He almost doesn’t dare to turn and check the Alpha’s reaction, terrified he’ll seem displeased at the choices and reluctant to shatter the happiness that’s engulfed him the past few hours, but he checks anyway. 

   He needn’t have worried it seems; Derek’s smiling broadly at the array of food. 

   “Excellent job, Stiles,” Derek compliments. “This looks amazing.”

   “Thank you, Derek,” Stiles answers, ducking his head as he blushes at the commendation.   “Would you like me to bring the dishes to the table or—”

   “We’ll just make plates in here,” Derek says, “but thank you for offering.”

   “Of course, Derek.”

   Stiles is confused when Derek reaches into the cabinet for plates when Stiles already had one set out for him.  He hands a plate to Isaac and another to Stiles.  Stiles can’t help the look of confusion that must cross his face.

   “Fix a plate for yourself,” Derek says before Stiles can confess the confusion. “Anytime I have something, I want the betas to have the same, okay? Put as much on your plate as I do on mine.”

   “Yes, Derek,” he answers, trying hard to keep his mouth from gaping open.

   “If you want more when you’re done with that, you can have it.  You can have as much as you want.”

“This is—this is plenty, Derek. I—I—thank you, Derek,” he stammers, trying to fathom what he could possibly have done to deserve such and Alpha or how he’s going to repay it.

   “You’re welcome, Stiles.”

   He beckons for Stiles to come sit at the table again.  Isaac joins them, coming to sit next to Stiles.  Stiles watches carefully out of the corner of his eye as Derek takes his first bite. 

   “Stiles this is fantastic,” he praises.  “You did a really good job.”

   “Thank you, Derek.”

   _I did good. I’m a good beta.  He’s going keep me._

He’s not sure how he got here or how long he’s been here or how often he shows the weakness of forgetting his pack.  He’s not sure why Derek is so patient and undemanding and generous.  He doesn’t dare ask if things are always this wonderful.  He just fills himself full of the excellent food the Alpha’s allowed him and soaks in the contentedness of the moment, unable to keep the smile off his face but Derek doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems glad of it.

   _If I keep being good, I’ll get to stay here._

_Please let me stay here. I want this pack, this Alpha.  It’s good here._

He dares to believe he’ll be kept because the Alpha continues complimenting and smiling and _thanking_ Stiles for doing simple things, easy things, things that he’ll do every day without question for as long as he’s alive if it means he gets to stay here.

   _He thinks I’m a good beta. He’s happy with me.  I’m going to be kept._

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

   After lunch they get in the car and go for a run out on Derek’s land, another suggestion on Stiles’ list, hopefully to burn off some of his nervous energy. It’s clear Stiles thinks there’s more to it than just going for a jog.  He’s tense for a long time, waiting for the catch in the plan, but after a while he’s smiling as he matches pace with Isaac though always careful never to come too close to passing Derek.  Isaac still can’t believe the difference in Stiles today and the ball of anxiety he normally is during regressions.  As much as he hates to admit it, maybe this really is better for everyone. 

The question is how it will affect Stiles coming back to them.  He knows Derek’s worried that playing along will make the episodes last longer, but the fact of the matter is they still haven’t figured out a good way to get Stiles back. Sharing the memories might not even affect anything—other than Stiles’ level of confusion.  Maybe he’ll always just come back on his own when his mind’s ready for it?

Isaac’s in the den with Derek, watching TV and trying not to feel guilty that Stiles is in the kitchen, working intently on the meal he wanted to prepare for dinner.  He hears Stiles coming and turns with Derek to see what he needs.

“Derek, do you like chocolate?” Stiles wonders.

“Yes, Stiles, I—” his answer is cut short by the glob of brownie batter that splatters across his face.

“Good,” Stiles replies, laughing and aiming another spoonful that Derek dodges easily. 

The food fight that ensues leaves the kitchen in total disarray and a couple of stubborn stains on the sofa, but nobody minds much.  They end up on the floor, breathless from laughter and covered in brownie batter, flour, cocoa, sugar, eggs, and everything else they could grab off the counters to throw. 

Stiles’ head rests on Derek’s stomach and Derek cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair as he says, “Missed you today; good to have you back.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles says, with an awkward smile. “That worked though right? I mean—can we—can we just do it like this? Because not coming back panicked out of my mind and having to sort out the tension the minute I’m out of it is kinda nice.”

“Fair enough,” Isaac says.

“Did I take longer to come back?”

_Seven hours and twenty-six minutes._

“Seven hours, give or take,” Isaac says aloud.  “Better than last time.”

“So can this be the official regression reaction plan?”

“Whatever helps you, Stiles,” Derek says.

“Cool, ‘cause yeah this was—this was better.”

“Good.”

_That’s the goal, dude.  Just keep making it better._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for reading! :) I'm still touched you guys stick with me!
> 
> Secondly, thanks to codarra serving as beta for this book.
> 
> As a heads up, this is not going to be one big story but rather a collection of one-shots that span the time between Desolate and Dedicated. Some long, some short, some angst-ridden, some rainbow-vomit inducing


	2. First Breath After Coma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wants to work up to being able to go out in public regularly again. The pack is, of course, patient and helpful.

Stiles expected the feeling of _not pack_ to make him uneasy.  He expected to have to fight the urge to flinch or lash out at every sudden movement he catches from the corner of his eyes.  He expected to need someone—or several someones—with him to guide him through because over half his brain function is focused on just keeping control.

What he didn’t expect were the whispers.

No one is being blatantly rude. The comments are hushed, hidden behind hands and newspapers, but it does nothing to keep them from a werewolf’s ears.

_I heard it was drugs—his dad sent him away to rehab so it wouldn’t mess up his chances of getting re-elected._

_I just hate it for the sheriff.  All that stuff they went through with his wife’s health and now he’s dealing with this.  Gonna drive that man to an early grave. It’s too much to put on a person._

_What’s he doing with Derek Hale anyway? Didn’t that guy get, like, arrested for murder or something? The Lahey kid too.  What the hell’s the sheriff thinking keeping them around?_

_Dude, look at him.  He’s like freaked the fuck out. Why would they make him come to fucking Starbucks?_

_Kacey told me they threw him in the loony bin. He had like a total mental breakdown or something. Probably all that stuff that went down with Matt. It was bound to get to him eventually.  I wonder if McCall’s next. He was there too right? Are they even friends anymore? If I were McCall I’d keep my distance.  Look at him—tell me you don’t think he needed a padded cell somewhere.  If he’s this nuts when he got back, imagine what he was like when he went in!_

_I hear the sheriff’s trying to adopt the Lahey kid.  His foster parents—you know Cindy and Rob Carlisle, right? They got saddled with him when the Johnsons kicked him out? Yeah, they live over on Plymouth Drive—anyway, they say they’re sure he must have been on drugs or caught up in gang stuff or something, but he straightened up once he started hanging around with Stiles again.  Maybe the sheriff cleaned them both up. Set ‘em straight you know?_

_You think he’s, like, crazy? Like dangerous kinda crazy? You’ve seen the TV shows where people just snap, right? It could happen.  He’s losing his shit; what if something sets him off?_

_Bless his heart.  I’m just glad his mother’s not around to see him like this.  It’d break Joanna’s heart.  You think he really doesn’t remember where he was all that time? Wonder what happened to him? He looks so scared._

Stiles knows he looks fucking crazy right now. His eyes are glued to the cup of coffee he doesn’t want to drink but is forcing down anyway, trying desperately to tune them all out and put on a smile. 

_Be normal. Just look normal. Stop shaking. Focus on Dad and Derek and Isaac.  You’re fine. Don’t be a spaz. Act normal._

“God, doesn’t anything else interesting go on in this town?” he mutters quietly as the whispers continue.

“We can go,” Derek offers.

“Am I missing something?” his dad wonders.

“People are talking,” Isaac replies, quietly. “You—uh—you can’t hear ‘cause you’re human but—”

“Who?” his dad demands, forehead creasing as he frowns angrily.  “Which one’s saying—”

“Dad, it’s fine,” Stiles urges, looking up for the first time since they came in.  “It’s just gossip stuff. They don’t mean anything. It’s fine.”

_It just makes me want to shift even more and shut them up about my pack and my family, but it’s fine._

It doesn’t stop his dad from glaring at some of the more obvious offenders, but that’s so Dad it makes Stiles smile just a little.  He forces down another gulp of— _what did I even order? Did I even order? I think maybe Dad ordered? Yeah, Dad ordered—_ the coffee that’s more chocolate than coffee (the way Stiles prefers it).  It’s another four minutes before he finally chugs the last of it and asks to go.  He’s still trembling when they get back to the car, but he can’t stop the small smile that starts across when he realizes public trip number two was just completed without any catastrophes at all.  Derek and Dad are grinning back at him.  Stiles has much less of a death grip on Isaac’s hand, but he doesn’t let go.  Isaac’s still rubbing his thumb back and forth over the back of Stiles hand.

“You did really good in there, kiddo,” Dad says and Isaac and Derek murmur agreements. 

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You boys want to grill out for supper? I’ll drop you home and run back to the store.”

“We can wait in the car,” Stiles offers.  “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good; I promise.”

_I really am pretty good.  Definitely not bad anyway.  That wasn’t too terrible._

_Baby steps, right?_

_Hell, not even baby steps. That was a leap. A fucking leap in the right direction.  Fuck everyone trying to be nosey about what the hell’s going on with me._

_I’m gonna be fine._

_Eventually._

********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

They’ve made three trips to Starbucks this week.  Stiles lasted twenty minutes last time.  He wants to try someplace else now, and so they’ve been sitting in the parking lot of the smallest grocery store in town for a good five minutes.  Stiles is staring at the automatic doors like they’re the gates to hell.  No matter how many times they swear it’s okay if he’s not ready, he determinedly answers, “No, I’m good.  Give me a minute. It’s not fear of going in. It’s fear of losing my shit and—and that’s a store _full_ of people and we’re not going to be within ten feet of an exit this time and what if I—”

“We won’t let you hurt anyone,” Derek promises.  “You know that.  We’ll stop you. We’ve got plans set up.  We’ll be right there with you all the way.  You won’t hurt anybody.”

The sheriff, Derek, and Isaac will go in with Stiles.  Lydia and Jackson are already inside.  Scott’s waiting by the door to follow after them when they go in.  Just like with the movies and Starbucks there are countless plans to control the situation if things get bad, but Isaac honestly thinks Stiles can do this.  He’s come so fucking far lately.

“Okay,” Stiles says finally.  “Let’s do this.”

It’s a short list; they should be inside for twenty minutes tops; they didn’t want to strain the time factor in a new place.  Stiles walks slowly between Derek and Isaac as they trail after his father.  Stiles is wringing his hands together as they walk, trying to give a small outlet to the pent-up anxiety.  Isaac wishes he could stop the stares and whispers they’re getting from some of the other patrons, but it’s one of the many variables outside his control.  

“Okay,” Stiles says as they walk through the doors.  “Okay. Cereal. We need cereal.”

His dad pushes the cart, and Stiles follows closely behind, eyes mostly trained on the floor.  Isaac wants to hold him because he’s shaking.  He wants to tell Stiles how fucking proud he is that Stiles even tries this.  He wants to take him home and make him feel safe and get his hands and mouth on every inch of him until the bliss eclipses all the anxiety.

But all he can do right now is offer a hand that Stiles latches onto like a lifeline and follow him down the aisles.

_You’re doing great, Stiles. Just keep going._

“Stiles?”

He full-body flinches at the sound of his name from an unfamiliar voice.

“Sorry, sorry,” the girl apologizes quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay, Hannah,” the sheriff replies kindly.  “Stiles is just—”

“Fine,” Stiles interrupts, gripping Isaac’s hand so hard Isaac can’t feel his fingers anymore.  “I’m fine,” Stiles repeats firmly, looking her in the face determinedly as he greets, “Hey, Hannah.”

“Glad you’re back and okay and everything,” she says.

Her smile is nervous, but she’s trying at least; it’s clear she wants to help but doesn’t know exactly what to do or say.

“Thanks.”

"We should—uh—catch up sometime or something. It’s been forever.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“You know whenever you—have—uh—time or whatever.”

Isaac wishes he could thank this girl for talking to Stiles like it’s no big deal that he’s trembling in a grocery store with an entourage of three people, for saying “time or whatever” like scheduling would be the only hindrance to normal social interaction, for reaching out and talking to him like he’s normal instead of just whispering pity or judgmental gossip about him when she thinks he can’t hear.  He decides Hannah whatever-her-last-name-is just might be one of his favorite people in the world right now and makes a mental note to look for her at school.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Talk to you later then,” she tells him, grabbing the box of Froot Loops she apparently came for.

"Yeah.”

Stiles takes several deep breaths as she heads back down the aisle, and his pulse slows back down to a more normal rate.

“How ya doin’, kiddo?” his dad wonders.

“I’m good; keep going,” he says with a strained smile.  “What’s next on the list?”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It’s all Derek can do to keep his face neutral instead of beaming like an idiot.  Stiles started this trip out following closely behind his father and barely lifting his eyes.  Then he talked to that girl, Hannah, slowly started commenting on what they bought, and barely flinched when someone else greeted him and the sheriff in passing.  He’s barely shaking at all by the time they reached the checkout line.

_This went really well. He’s totally taking it in stride. I bet by next week he could—_

"Guys,” Stiles says, clearly beginning to panic.  “Guys, I think something’s wrong.  I’m—”  He shuts his eyes, jaws clenching against the pain evident in his face.  “Seizure,” he grits out. “I think I—”

“Come on,” Isaac says, pushing past the sheriff and toward the door with Derek right behind them.

They make it almost to the door before it hits.  There’s nothing they can do but try to keep people back as Stiles seizes.

_Dammit no! He’s been doing so fucking well! He’s been trying so hard! When the fuck does he get to catch a goddamn break?!_

“Someone call 911!” a voice yells.

“No, it’s fine,” the sheriff counters.  “He’s epileptic. It happens.  We’ll get him home and get his medicine.”

“Are you sure he—”

“I’m sure,” the sheriff says tiredly, “We’ll just get him home.”

They let the matter drop, trusting the sheriff.   As Stiles’ cries turn to whimpers and the convulsions stop, Derek immediately moves so his face is going to be the first thing Stiles sees.

_Please don’t shift; please don’t shift._

The moment Stiles’ eyes snap open, Derek orders, “Don’t move; don’t speak.”

He speaks too quietly for the onlookers to hear, but Stiles definitely heard his Alpha if the way his eyes widen in alarm is any indicator.

_Here we go.  Calm Alpha. Happy Alpha.  Keep my shit together._

“Good. You’re doing good.  It’s okay. I’m going to pick you up. I know you’re confused.  Don’t be scared,” he says quietly in what he hopes is a soothing voice.

Stiles remains obediently silent and pliable as Derek picks him up and carries him out of the store.  Isaac and the sheriff are right behind them.  He thinks he hears Scott offer to take care of the groceries, but he’s not really listening.  Stiles is shaking visibly by the time they reach the truck, and Derek deposits him in the seat.

“Look at me, beta, in my eyes,” Derek requests, and Stiles does.  “You are not in trouble; you were not being punished.  You have seizures sometimes, and it causes your brain to block all yourmemories.  It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.  You’re a very, _very_ good and valuable part of this pack.  I know that right now you’re not sure you should trust humans, but you can.  Especially that one, okay?” he says gesturing to the sheriff.  “Don’t hurt him.”

When the automatic affirmation doesn’t come, Derek remembers he’s instructed Stiles not to move or talk.

“You can speak or do whatever you want now; I just didn’t want you to do anything to hurt or confuse the humans in the store.”

“Yes, Alpha. Thank you.”

“Call me Derek. This is Isaac and—” he hesitates when he looks at the Sheriff, “and John. We’re going to go home now, okay? I’ll give you some tasks to do until your memories come back.”

“Yes, Derek. Thank you, Derek.”

           

**************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

He wakes slowly and knows they must’ve sedated him.  Through the haze of the tranquilizer, he struggles to realign what must have led to this moment.

_Grocery store. We were at the grocery store._

_The grocery store. Full of people. Humans. Breakable humans and now I’m sedated which means I—_

“Breathe, Stiles;breathe,” Isaac’s voice soothes from the other side of the bed.  “It’s okay. You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you.”

“I know. I’m good. I’m me,” he tells Isaac. “The grocery store. Did I hurt people? Did I—”

“Everything’s fine,” Isaac promises, sliding his hand across the bed to find Stiles’. “Everyone’s fine. It went—well, it went as well as we could hope a seizure to go, and you’re back now, so everything’s fine.”

“I didn’t hurt anybody?”

“No, you didn’t.  Everything’s fine.”

_Good, good. That’s good. I’m good. Everything’s good.  Just breathe._

“Good to have you back,” Isaac says. 

“How long was I gone?”

“The rest of yesterday—fourteen hours including sleep,” Isaac answers.

“So not too bad.”

“No,” Isaac agrees though there’s still plenty of worry in his face.

I _’m so fucking sorry you guys have to deal with this._

"Sorry, I—”

 “Dude, no apologies.  You were fucking awesome yesterday,” Isaac interrupts.

 “I had a seizure.”

 “You know what I mean—before that, going through the store. You’ve been doing really well, Stiles. Don’t shrug it off.”

 “I did totally last twenty minutes at the grocery store.”

 “You talked to people and everything.”

 “Yeah.”

 Stiles can’t help being at least a little proud of that fact.  He really should text Hannah like he said.  It was really awesome of her to talk to him and everything even though he knows he probably looked fucking insane. 

  _Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but nobody got hurt.  It was okay._

 _"_ Come on,” Stiles says, rising from the bed.  “I’ll make breakfast.”

 

 

***************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Tomorrow marks two months since they decided to give this three-person plan a shot. Derek’s not sure if Stiles and Isaac realize that or not, and he’s damn sure not going to bring it up if they don’t.  He’s not some sappy, sentimental teenage girl or something.   He just knows how to read a calendar.  It’s not like it even mattersthat much; it’s just a good excuse to do something fun.  It’s not a big deal.

_Totally not a big deal._

_Definitely not a big deal that this is now officially the longest I’ve ever had any kind of relationship._

_Nope. Not a big deal at all._

_Just a little surprise for Isaac and Stiles for some stress relief._

_That’s all._

_No big deal._

“Seriously, Derek, where are we going?” Isaac wonders.

“Because I find it annoying that we had to dress nice for something we don’t even—”

“Would you two just fucking go with it?” Derek interrupts.  “Like five more minutes.  That’s it. What part of _surprise_ didn’t you understand?”

The words come out tersely, but there’s a sense of giddiness building up in Derek he’s not going to be able to hide much longer.  When he pulls to a stop at the valet booth—the valet has the night off, not that Isaac and Stiles know that—Isaac and Stiles share mirrored looks of confusion; Derek smiles.

“Okay, we’re here.”

He gets out of the car, and Isaac slowly moves to do the same.

“Are we—Derek this is Délicieux,” Isaac says.

“Yes,” Derek agrees. “Good eye.”

“Délicieux,” Stiles repeats while climbing from the car, as though worried Derek didn’t hear Isaac properly.  “As in one of the most unoriginally named and overly priced restaurants in Beacon Hills.”

“I know where we are, Stiles.  I’m the one who drove us here.  Are you two coming or what?” he prompts, taking a couple steps toward the door with a smile.

“Coming?”

“Yes, are you coming?”

He’s putting up a good show of impatience, but in reality he’d’ve been disappointed if they hadn’t been caught at least a little off guard at the idea.   He regrets not explaining the plan just slightly as doubt clouds Stiles’ eyes.

“Derek, I don’t think I can—I know I’ve been getting better but—I—I’m not ready to handle that many people for thatlong and this is a nice place. They’re—”

“Hey,” Derek soothes, grabbing Stiles’ hand.  “It’s okay, you don’t have to deal with people.”

“It’s a _restaurant._ ”

“Mr. Hale?” the hostess asks, opening the door. 

“Just one second,” Derek replies over his shoulder.

“How does the hostess know your name?” Isaac wonders.

“Because we’re the only people eating here tonight.”

“We’re what?”

“Just us. Nobody else.”

“But how—” Stiles starts before Isaac interrupts with an incredulous, “You _bought out the restaurant?_ ”

Derek grins, unable to hold it back anymore as Stiles’eyes widen in surprise.

"You did, you bought out the fucking restaurant.”

He shrugs and starts toward the door.  “So you coming or what?”

“You’re insane,” Isaac informs him.

“Insanely _loaded_ ,” Stiles corrects.

Derek’s almost to the door the hostess is holding open before Stiles and Isaac snap out of their stupor and start to follow. 

“We’ve got your table ready, Mr. Hale, if you’ll follow me.  Mr. Carson will be by in a little while.”

“Derek’s fine, Thank you.”

“Right this way, Derek.”

They go to the corner booth Derek requested so Stiles can sit with his back to the wall, facing the door with Isaac and Derek on either side.  It’s the most secure he’s going to feel in here, but Derek figured why not try to keep his instincts as appeased as possible.  Hopefully he’s going to relax enough to enjoy things.

_Please let this be good.  It’s supposed to be awesome.  We deserve something awesome once in a while.  Please don’t let this be too much._

“My name’s Emily,” the hostess says as they sit.  “I’ll be your server this evening as well. Can I get you started off with something to drink? We have a lovely ’74 Bordeaux that—”

It’s a slightly uncomfortable reminder that Derek’s on a date with two teenagers. Not that alcohol would do much to any of them anyway _and_ not that these people think it’s a date. He’s just treating the sheriff’s kid and foster kid as a thank you for the sheriff helping him through Peter’s death—that’s what he told Ben Carson when he asked for the favor anyway.

“I think we’ll just have some iced tea,” he replies.

“Screw that,” Stiles interrupts.  “Can I get a piña colada? I mean—like a non-alcoholic one obviously,” he adds when Derek glares. “What? I fucking love coconut okay?”

Derek rolls his eyes, but it’s the best thing Stiles could have said. Because if he’s talking to the waitress, if he’s ordering for himself, then his excitement is outweighing the anxiety.  He’s focusing more on the experience than the control.  And _that_ is why it was worth buying out the restaurant.

“Sure,” she says.

“Come on, Isaac,” Stiles goads.  “You know you’re man enough to order something fruity and awesome.”

Isaac sighs.  “Stiles—”

“He wants a non-alcoholic daiquiri—strawberry,” Stiles informs Emily.  “Because even if he doesn’t, I do.”

She laughs a little at his exuberance, and Derek wonders if she thinks they were crazy for warning her that Stiles might be nervous.  He’s so close to the normal, usual Stiles right now that Derek could kiss him—but won’t—until they get home—maybe the car.

"Still tea for you, Derek?” she wonders.

“Yeah, tea’s good. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll be right back to take your orders.”

She disappears back to the kitchen, leaving them to try and translate the menu.

“I cannot believe you _bought out a restaurant,_ ” Isaac hisses again once she’s gone.

“Problem?” Derek asks.

“No, it’s _awesome_ just—you _bought out a restaurant._ ”

Derek shrugs.  “I splurged.”

“For two months,” Stiles says, guessing correctly.

“No, for one night,” Derek corrects, feigning ignorance. 

“Don’t play dumb.  You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Stiles says.

“It has been two months, hasn’t it?” Isaac says, connecting the dots. 

“Tomorrow,” Stiles says; his grin widens as he adds, “I mean I was just going to offer extra awesome blow jobs—but this is much classier, Derek; good job.”

“Fuck off,” he huffs, embarrassed.

“Maybe later.”

“You are—”

“Incorrigible,” Stiles says proudly.   His face sobers as he adds, “Seriously, Derek, this is—it’s—I really appreciate—”

“It’s fucking ridiculously cool,” Isaac finishes for him, saving them all from the impending sentimentality.

“Good,” Derek replies. 

"So are we picking our own food or are you ordering for us again?” Stiles wonders.  “Because I might have over-ruled you on the drinks, but there was still something really damn sexy about—”

 “ _Stiles_ —”

 “Huff all you want, you think I’m adorable.  You’re grinning like an idiot.”

 “I am not,” Derek insists.

 But he is. He really is.

 And he can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed.

 

********************************************************

 

 Ben Carson—the guy who opened this place straight out of college to sickeningly quick success—shows up toward the end of dinner.  Derek goes to greet him and thank him for agreeing to the deal—though if Isaac had to bet Carson’s not exactly going to suffer from going along with it.

 “It’s our slowest night anyway, and you know damn well you paid me more than you needed to,” he’s reminding Derek.

“I didn’t want you to think I expected—”

“It’s no problem, Der.”

“ _Derek_ ,” he corrects, and Isaac has to try incredibly hard to suppress a laugh at how much of a petulant child Derek sounds like.

“Say that all you want,” Ben says, slapping a hand on Derek’s back, “in my head you’re never growing up past being Laura’s kid brother.”

“Fuck off.”

“She’d be proud of you,” Ben says.  “Building the new house and everything, and I heard you donated to help the school rebuild the library. That’s—”

“Come on, Ben, it’s not—”

“They’d _all_ be proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, shifting awkwardly; Isaac hates how he never seems sure what to do with praise. 

“So how’s Stilinski’s kid? He seems pretty okay tonight,” Ben comments with a nod in their direction, unaware that they can hear every word perfectly.

“He’s getting better.”

“Not many people would want to help with that kind of stuff; you’re—”

“Jesus Christ, Ben, stop making me a saint.  I told you—the sheriff helped me out when Laura—and then I needed a place after Peter, and—”

“ _Exactly_ , Laura _and_ Peter—you had a lot of your own shit to deal with, and now you’re helping them with theirs too. Not many people would.” 

Derek continues to shrug off the credit.  “It’s no big deal.”

“They’d be proud of you,” Ben says again.

“I swear to God if you get any more sentimental, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

Ben laughs at that, a short burst that makes Stiles jump just a little.

“All right.  Fine.  I’ll let you get back to dinner.  Don’t be a stranger though.”

“Okay,” Derek answers, and Isaac wonders if Derek means it or is just placating Ben.

“It’s good to see you happy, Der.”

_“Derek.”_

“Not gonna happen.”

Derek huffs as he walks back to the booth, sliding back in on his side and reaching for his drink.

“What?” he asks of Isaac.  “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

_Because I don’t know how I always forget that you used to be someone’s kid brother.  Because he just talked to you about your family and I know what that does to you.  Because apparently you gave money to fix the library Matt made Jackson destroy.  Because no matter how well I think I know you, there’s a lot more going on with you than I pick up on, and if this goes how we all want, I get to spend the foreseeable future figuring you out, Derek Hale._

“Nothing,” Isaac dismisses, “just—this’s seriously awesome, Derek.”

"You guys interested in dessert?” Emily wonders, coming over to refill Derek’s tea.

_Not really.  At the moment I’m more interested in getting the two of them home and watching them strip out of those button-downs and seeing how serious Stiles was about—_

But Stiles is still mellowed out and content; Derek’s soaking in the moment too; and this place really is great.

_I’m patient._

Well, patient _enough._

****************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Stiles is still figuring out exactly what he likes and doesn’t like in bed with Isaac and Derek.  He’s still gingerly testing limits.  He’s still wondering if some things have been spoiled permanently or if he’ll work through them.  But what he does know, without a single doubt, it that he absolutely _loves_ watching Derek and Isaac come undone under his hands and mouth, babbling incoherently until they’re so blissed out the only word they remember is his name, said over and over again in every intonation from frantic lust to a hushed prayer.

Like it’s something precious.

They’ve got Derek splayed out on the bed.  Stiles knows vaguely that Isaac’s alternating between sucking hickies along Derek’s neckline and mouthing at his nipples, but he’s personally more focused on the way Derek’s trying so hard to be quiet as Stiles teases him mercilessly, licking slow lines down the length of Derek’s cock as he fondles his balls. He presses kisses to the inside of Derek’s thighs, slowly touching and kissing and teasing, stalling taking Derek in his mouth until Derek finally gasps out between kisses from Isaac, “Oh my _God,_ Stiles!”

Stiles grins devilishly.  Derek’s quiet in bed, holding in noise and holding back reactions for whatever reason, and Stiles loves to draw them out of him, loves to see the blush that rises when he can’t control his words any longer.  He gives in, lapping at the head of Derek’s cock.  The sharp intake of air and muttered “Fuck, Stiles” curse from Derek are perfect, exactly what Stiles was hoping for, and he begins to blow Derek in earnest, before he slowly sucks Derek in deeper and deeper, swirling his tongue and playing at the slit, getting more gasps and moans from Derek.  He relishes the sound of Derek calling their names like he’d die if they left now, like he _needs_ them here, like this, undoing him slowly until the anger and guilt and fear melt into nothing but euphoria that momentarily surpasses the worry of their everyday lives.  Stiles is so fucking glad that he can do this, delights in employing so much experience with those he loathed to draw wanton sounds from one that he loves.  Isaac and Stiles work in tandem, giving Derek so much stimulation he’s practically out of his mind with pleasure by the time he finally comes, moaning loudly into Isaac’s kiss.

           

************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

It honestly takes a moment or two for Derek to come down enough to realize that now he’s been taken care of— _God_ has he been taken care of—Isaac and Stiles have moved on to taking care of each other.  Isaac’s beside him on the bed.  Stiles is using his left arm to brace himself as he hovers over Isaac, leaving Derek a clear view from his spot on the right.  From the mischievous look Stiles gives when his eyes meet Derek’s for a moment, he wants Derek watching, and _damn_ if Derek wasn’t so entirely spent it’d be enough to have him half hard again.  Isaac throws his head back, encouraging Stiles to nip and suck his way up until he’s biting at Isaac’s earlobe, extracting a groan as he moves to claim Isaac’s mouth.  They move together, dicks aligned in Isaac’s grip, and Isaac swallows the sound of Stiles’ orgasm just like he took Derek’s and then comes right behind him, Stiles’ name on his lips. 

_How the fuck did we all get this lucky_ _? How is this possibly mine to keep?_

“So yeah,” Stiles says breathlessly as he flops onto the bed beside Isaac.  “Happy anniversary.”  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my cupcake, Nicole! (en_kelleher) :P You can thank her for the Derek buying out a restaurant idea :) 
> 
> Title from the Explosions in the Sky song, if you were wondering.


	3. Brought Back But You're Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is by far the most experienced of the three of them, but only because the Alphas trained him that way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Brand New song "Degausser"
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the fluff last chapter because this is not that :/ 
> 
> Sorry I'm not sorry *cackles*

The sheriff’s switching back to night shift after a weekend off.  He’ll leave for his shift in just a few minutes, and first nights with the house to themselves again are never taken for granted.  Derek’s never had much on patience, and he swears to God the clock is going half speed.  When Stiles returns from the kitchen with a popsicle, Derek could strangle him.

_You wouldn’t._

Oh, but Stiles would.

He’s out of the sheriff’s eye line as the older man takes in the evening news, and that leaves Stiles no reason at all to try to be coy about the visual he’s encouraging.  He licks slowly at first, tongue tracing the length, eyes locking with Derek’s a while before he looks to Isaac who’s trying his best not to seem flustered.  Derek looks pointedly away, pretending this cheesy tale about some plucky, three-legged cat is the most riveting goddamn news story he’s ever seen. 

When he gives into the urge to glance back at Stiles, the popsicle’s disappeared entirely between his lips.  Derek mutters a few curses so low the sheriff’s human ears wouldn’t pick them up, but Stiles just smiles, which doesn’t help a damn thing.

_Stiles, you little shit._

*******************************************************************************************************

 

“That bullshit with the popsicle,” Isaac pants as they fall back on the bed.  “You are such a fucking tease.”

“Not a tease if I’m following through,” Stiles argues, kissing his way along Isaac’s collarbone.  “Tell me what you want,” he says breathlessly.  “What d’you want? I can—”

Stiles continues to rattle off a list of possibilities, wrecking Isaac with just the _thought_ of it.  He gets distracted when he sees the way Derek hesitates just a moment as he comes to join the on the bed.  Isaac doesn’t quite understand the hitch until Stiles says again:      “I mean it. _Anything_.”

And even though he doesn’t want to, even though he wants Stiles and Derek so bad he almost can’t bear it, even though he knows Stiles wants this—has been egging it on for twenty minutes—the words still echo through his mind in a conditioned, trembling voice: _Anything, anything I can do. Anything you want. Please._ Isaac’s eyes meet Derek’s, and he knows Derek’s hearing the same thing. 

Isaac closes his eyes, willing away the memory, but the floodgates are opened already.

_Stiles really does mean anything.  Even if it’s him offering and not the conditioning, he knows—he knows everything, anything—because they taught him—because they made him learn to—_

“Isaac?” Stiles asks, pulling back and sitting up.

“Sorry,” Isaac replies. “Sorry, I just—I—”

_I can’t believe I haven’t thought about this before. I mean—I thought about it, but—but they really did probably teach you everything.  Before they took you, you were whining about your virginity and the difficulty of finding people to even kiss.  Now—now after that list you just listed off like it was nothing, God only knows what you haven’t done._

“Dude, just because we _can_ do anything doesn’t mean we have to do _everything._ I just—ya know—dirty talk or whatever which was apparently a horrible plan and I should never—”

“No, it’s—I’m fine—just—we can keep going; I’m fine.”

Stiles frowns down at him, looking over to Derek and frowning even more deeply to see similar hesitation in him. 

“You know, I’ve got a new appreciation for your reaction when I say that to you,” Stiles says wearily. 

He retreats, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“Stiles, it’s not—”

“Was it the ‘anything’ thing? Because I know we say slow. I didn’t mean we had to like fuck each others’ brains out or something. I was just—I dunno—I—”

_How do I explain this?_

“It was more—it was more that you _meant_ it,” Isaac says, and Derek nods in a kind of agreement.

“Meant what? That I was up for anything?”

“And—and that you know how to do all that—everything you were talking about.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles replies, confused, “but that’s kinda awesome, right? I mean—”

Isaac can see the moment he follows where their thoughts must have gone.  He hates the confirming flicker of pain that crosses Stiles’ face as the dots connect. 

“Oh,” Stiles says quietly.  “That I—that I know because I did that stuffwith them. That’s what—that’s what you’re thinking about.”

“It just kinda—caught me off guard I guess. I never really thought about—”

“No, I get it,” Stiles replies with a shrug.  “I—yeah—I get it.  Definitely a mood killer.”

“Maybe we can—”

“Hey, I’m—uh—I’m gonna just—” Stiles starts like Isaac didn’t say anything.  He’s purposely avoiding their eyes now, gathering his shirt from the floor and donning it again as he talks.  “I’m gonna get some air, so—so you two can—whatever or—or yeah, whatever but I—I just—I need a minute, sorry.”

“Stiles, wait,” Derek says.

“I’m good; just give me a minute.”

 

****************************************************************

 

His stomach feels like it’s twisting itself into knots.   He can feel the panic rising, constricting his chest; he shuts his eyes to focus on breathing.  He heads toward the tire swing, but with this nauseated feeling he doesn’t think he could take the motion; he sits against the tree instead and leans his head back, looking up at the oranges and yellows reflecting in the clouds as the sun sets. 

_How did you two not think about this? I thought you didn’t care. I mean I know—I know it’s not exactly the sex history you want in a partner but, I can’t—it’s not like I chose them.  It just—it’s how it happened, and I thought we could at least make the most of it. Fucked up silver linings and all that._

He fights the tears of shame he knows he shouldn’t feel but carries anyway, determined not to let them see how much the words hurt when they come out to check on him—because they will, they always check on him even when he tries to lie and say he’s fine.   Sure enough, it’s barely five minutes before they come slowly out the back door.  They stand there, uncertain if they should intrude, and he takes a deep breath before he stands and walks back toward them.

_It’s okay. I’m okay. I can suck it up. It’s fine._

**********************************************************************

 

Stiles is smiling, but there’s still hurt in his eyes that he’s not hiding as well as he thinks he is.  He takes a seat on the steps, beckoning Derek and Isaac to join him.  They sit in silence a while, and Derek wishes he knew what to say or ask or just _something_ to help, but he’s not even sure if Stiles wants to be touched right now.  So he just waits, hoping their presence is at least better than solitude.

“Look—I—I mean I get it,” Stiles says finally, repeating his words from upstairs. “I guess I just—I figured you guys had thought about it, ya know? That you’d decided it didn’t—” he clears his throat because his voice is cracking just a little. “That you’d decided it didn’t matter.”

“Stiles—”

“Don’t,” he pleads.  “You don’t have to. I—I understand where you’re coming from here. I can’t blame you; I’d probably feel the same way.”

There’s something in his voice.  Something that sounds too much like _I didn’t mean to make you sick, Isaac…I promise I won’t touch you again._ And it claws at Derek worse than a physical pain.

“Stiles, it’s—we’re worried about _you_ ; you understand that, right?” Derek asks. “This isn’t—we didn’t mean—”

“I saw the looks on your faces,” Stiles replies, and Derek can see the tears starting to build in his eyes as Stiles pointedly looks anywhere but at Isaac or Derek.  “Both of you.  You don’t have to apologize. I get it. I know what I—the stuff I’ve done’s not—not exactly pretty. It’s pretty fucking disgusting actually. Nobody wants to think about their boyfriend getting passed around like a—”

"Stiles, no,” Isaac protests. “God, no, that’s not—that’s not what we meant.  It’s not the fact you were with them; you couldn’t help that.  That’s not—it’s that—it’s that it broke my fucking heart that _everything_ you know—all those memories that are supposed to be awkward or awesome or just—I dunno—great in the way they’re supposed to be—it’s all stuff you were _made_ to do with them; stuff you had no choice but to learn just to fucking survive them, and _that’s_ what it was. Not you, just the reminder of all the horrible shit that you’ve been put through and—”

 “Exactly! That’s why this—us—is _never_ bad, you see that? Before this, before you and Derek, _all_ I could associate sex with was pain.  Desperate acts of humiliation to avoid pain—learning to do whatever they wanted and do it well because the other option was to get beaten or shredded—and then, then—pain itself with—with—you guys saw with—with Alec. That’s how everything was with them.  Fear and pain and—and so fucking far from anything I have with you.  It’s a different world with the three of us.  It’s all—it’s all different in the best fucking way possible, and I just—I know that maybe it’s weird and you don’t wanna think about how I know it, but I _do_ and getting to take that and do it on _my_ terms how _I_ want to with people _I_ choose and care about and fucking _love._ It’s not—it doesn’t matter where it came from to me, and we can do the most vanilla shit in the world if it makes you feel better, but don’t you dare feel guilty about anything we do because all it ever does is rewrite those God-awful memories into something so fucking fantastic that I never want it to stop.”

 He’s crying outright by the end of the outburst, hiding his head in his hands.  It’s the most forthcoming he’s ever been about what they did to him before—aside from a few memories he recounted with chilling clinical detachment so Derek could take them away—and Derek can’t help thinking they should have had this talk so much sooner—but none of them knew how to start it; Stiles is clearly embarrassed to have to talk about it, it’s just—they’re all in over their heads, like they always are, but that doesn’t mean they give up on it. 

 “Me neither,” Derek says honestly.  “We don’t want it to stop either.”

 “We love you, you moron,” Isaac adds.  “Scars and all.  We want to overwrite all of it as much as you do, it’s just—”

 “It’s a lot,” Stiles finishes for him. “I know it is. I’m sorry I—”

 “Hey,” Isaac interrupts. “You have _nothing_ to apologize for,” he promises. 

 Stiles doesn’t reply, but he’s not meeting their eyes either.

 “You want to rewrite memories?” Derek wonders. 

 “Yeah.”

 “Okay, what do _you_ want to do?” he wonders.  “Not what you can do to make us feel good, tell us how to bliss _you_ out Stiles. Anything _you_ want,” he offers, hand running up Stiles’ arm. 

 Stiles shudders, and Derek thinks he’s fucked up for a minute until he sees the smile on Stiles face and the glint in his eyes at the words.

 “It doesn’t have to be now, but—”

 “Oh, hell yes it does,” Stiles answers, surging in for a kiss.

 

*****************************************************

 

 They’re taking Stiles apart deliciously slow, light and gentle touches and kisses that are driving him mad in the best way possible.  There’s a thrill of excitement in having both of them eagerly awaiting his directions, making the night about him, and _God_ he doesn’t care if it’s a little bit selfish because he’s got Derek’s tongue in his mouth and Isaac’s hand stroking his cock and—and—and—

_No, no, no, it’s Isaac. It’s Isaac. It’s okay._

But he can’t see Isaac, not with Derek kissing him, and even though he _knows_ it’s okay, _knows_ he’s safe, _knows_ it’s Isaac’s hand, all he can think is Rachel. Rachel taunting as she strokes him.

_So many would beg for this beta. It’s a privilege. An honor.  And you can’t get it up for me? Weak, pathetic, useless little—ah, there we go, see, you enjoy this. You like this. Pleasing your Alpha like a good beta should._

“Stop,” Stiles begs, and he hates himself for how terrified and broken the word is when it escapes his lips.  “Please, stop. I’m sorry, just –just—”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence before they’re backing off, giving him space and watching worriedly as they try to understand what went wrong. It makes it worse, so, _so_ much worse to see the moment ruined for them, too. He can’t stand the pain on their faces and knowing his past haunts Derek and Isaac too, fucks up the moments that should be perfect and wonderful and more than Stiles could have conjured in his wildest dreams. 

Tears burn in his eyes as the shame he knows he shouldn’t feel at not being able to give them what they want, hatred for the Alphas for leaving him so damaged, frustration that he can’t push past this, and embarrassment at losing his composure so completely rise up and engulf him.  He doesn’t want to feel this way.  He can’ help it, though, and it’s all just so incredibly, _incredibly_ unfair. 

He hides his face in his hands as he begins to cry in earnest, pulling his knees up to his chest.  Isaac’s talking to him, soothing tones Stiles doesn’t absorb as he tries to fight back the images of the Alphas still rising in his mind.  He doesn’t know whose hand rests gently on his shoulder, but he’s jerking away before he can stop himself, scrambling back to cower against the headboard.

“Don’t, don’t, _please_ don’t,” he whines.

He knows they feel the need to comfort him; he wishes desperately that he could let them, but he can’t.

_Pathetic. Broken. Weak._

_What are you good for?_

_Nothing._

The voice in his head is Thomas’; knowing it isn’t real doesn’t quiet it any.

_You’re a pitiful little wretch sobbing against a headboard worrying the shit out of people you’re supposed to love and care for.  Look how you’ve ruined the night.  Look how you’ve taken what they tried to give you and spoiled it.  Weak and worthless and burdensome.  You don’t deserve them._

_They should leave you.  Leave you here with your poor human father.  What Alpha would keep you? Such a liability. Such a burden.  Can’t fuck. Can’t be fucked. Walking on eggshells all the time because of you, you worthless little shit.  You burdensome little shit. What are you good for? What use are you?_

_No! No! I’m useful. I’m good. I belong here,_ Stiles tries to argue against the insane insistence in his mind.  _I’m okay. I’m here. I’m safe. They love me._

_They love me, and I’m dragging them into this shit with me.  They love me, but I can’t even give them one good night of fooling around without having to worry about setting me off. They love me, but Isaac skips class when he’s worried, and Derek misses meetings for the house because I have bad days.  They love me, but I’m still a burden._

_Such a burden._

_Pathetic. Broken, Weak. Useless._

_I’m sorry I’m such a burden. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be. I don’t mean to be. I don’t want to be a burden. I want to be better. I can be better. I have to be better. I—_

“Useful!” Derek’s thundering voice cuts into Stiles’ mental anguish, startling him.  “You hear me, Stiles? You _are_ useful! You _are_ loved! You _are_ wanted! This pack _needs_ you, Stiles. You are useful and wonderful and so fucking smart and brave and strong and useful and good and—”

Derek keeps going, repeating over and over how useful and wanted and loved Stiles should feel.  Affirming Stiles’ place in this pack and all the reasons he belongs here. Stiles focuses on the words, wills them to drown out Thomas and the conditioning.

_Useful. Loved. Wanted. Needed. Safe. Home. Useful._

 

***************************************************************

 

Derek’s voice is cracking from overuse and his heart is breaking as he watches Stiles huddle against the headboard.  Stiles has his head in his hands, rocking slightly as he mutters an argument with some Alpha who isn’t here.  Derek wants more than anything to hold him, pull him in close and make him feel safe and make him look Derek in the eyes until he _sees_ the terrifying amount of love Derek harbors for him. 

In the end though, all they can do is take the blanket Isaac grabs from the closet and place it gently over Stiles.  He buries himself under it, settling into a still form scrunched into the fetal position on the mattress instead of quaking against the headboard.  It’s a small improvement, but it’s better than nothing. 

Derek only stops his repetitious assurances when his voice gives way to coughing. As soon as the words stop, Stiles’ hand shoots out from under the blanket.

“Stay,” he begs. “Please, Derek, Stay. Don’t leave me with Thomas. Please.”

Derek latches onto Stiles’ hand instantly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swears hoarsely. “I’m here, and Thomas can’t hurt you anymore.  Not ever.  You’re safe, and you’re loved, and I’m here. We’re here.”

“Isaac?” Stiles whimpers.

“I’m here, too,” Isaac says, wrapping his fingers loosely and tentatively around Stiles’ forearm. 

“Stay.”

“Of course,” Isaac promises, and he picks up the assurances where Derek left off.  “Of course we’re both staying. We’re always here, Stiles. We love you. You’re good and useful and awesome and brave and…”

 

***********************************************************

 

Stiles finally, _finally_ drifts to sleep.  They don’t dare let go of his hand, but they can’t get back on the bed without scaring him either.  Instead, Derek leans in sideways against the bed and Isaac leans back into Derek.  It’s not comfortable, but it’s tolerable.  It’s not like either of them was going to get any decent rest anyway. 

Isaac closes his eyes, focusing in on Derek’s and Stiles’ heartbeats made languid with sleep.  He lets the metronome of it lull him toward sleep, and he’s just on the edge when a whimper from Stiles rouses him back.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “It’s okay. You’re safe.  You’re okay. We love you, Stiles. You’re okay.”

Stiles’ breathing and pulse even back out after a few moments, the bad dream seemingly chased off for the moment.  Isaac would give almost anything to chase it away for good. 

_Isn’t it enough that he had to endure them all those months? Why do they have to fuck up everything good for him? Why does he have to deal with this shit all the time? Why does he still have to hear them in his head even after we ripped those sadistic fuckers apart? Why can’t we make him better?_

_He doesn’t deserve this. It’s not fucking fair!_

**********************************************************

 

Stiles finally wakes to find the panicked tension in him has dissipated.  He can feel Derek and Isaac’s sleep-slackened grips still clinging at his hand.   He doesn’t stir much, just peeks his head out from under the blanket.  They’re leaned against the bed, sleeping in a position that can’t possibly be comfortable, and he knows they must’ve been like that for hours now.

_Look at them. Dealing with all this shit for me._

Isaac stirs slightly, leaning back into Derek whose shifts in his sleep to allow Isaac to lean back closer.

 _At least they’ve got each other, I guess?_ Stiles thinks, trying to ease the guilt constricting his chest, but it’s followed quickly by the malicious devil in the back of his mind pointing out, _They have each other.  Why the fuck do they need you? Look at them.  They get through this together.  They make it through your bad days together.  They could do this on their own. They don’t need you.  They could be so good without you, so much closer to normal. They’d be good without you—happier._

He doesn’t doubt that they love him, but he still knows that his inclusion in this relationship only makes everything harder to figure out. 

_I’m sorry I can’t let you go. I’m sorry I’m too selfish to step back._

_I’m so fucking sorry for all this shit._

**************************************************************

 

Derek jolts awake when Stiles snatches his hand away and bolts from the room.

"Stiles?” he calls as he struggles to wake fully and follow. “Stiles!”

“I’m fine!” Stiles yells back, the pained crack in his voice evident. “I’m fine; go back to sleep. I’m just gonna shower.”

“Go after him or let him be?” Isaac wonders, voicing the same dilemma in Derek’s mind.

“Maybe just—just give him a minute?”

The shower turns on.  Isaac and Derek rise and stretch; Derek’s protesting muscles were clearly not a fan of the sleeping arrangements, but it’s a small sacrifice.  He rubs at a knot in his shoulder, trying to loosen the tense muscle, and Isaac’s hand pushes his aside, massaging until the tension leaves.

“Thanks.”

“Comes with a price, dude,” Isaac informs him.  “I fully expect reciprocation.”

As Derek turns to oblige, a muffled wail carries down the hall from the bathroom.

“Did you hear that?” he wonders.

“Stiles?” Isaac calls, but there’s no answer.  “Stiles?!”

“I’m—I’m fine,” Stiles says finally, hiccupping through his reply and clearly speaking through tears. “Don’t—don’t worry about me. Go—go get some—some sleep.”

“Stiles, come on. What’s wrong? Talk to us,” Isaac says.

“No, I’m—I’m okay.”

“Stiles, open the door. Please?” Stiles doesn’t answer, and Isaac wants to bust in the door but doesn’t want to scare him.  “Please?” he repeats.  “Come on, if you don’t we’re just going to wait here until you come out. Let us help.”

Derek hears Stiles rise and then the shower cuts off. He must’ve never gotten in the shower, just using it as an excuse. Derek’s assumption is confirmed when Stiles opens the door; he’s completely dry save for the tears coursing down his face.  Stiles tries for just a moment to force a smile, but then his face crumples and he’s sobbing again.

“Hey, hey, shhh. It’s okay,” Isaac soothes as Stiles leans to hide his face in Isaac’s shoulder.

Derek takes the contact as a permission to reach and rub soothing circles on Stiles back, needing to feel like he’s helping but not wanting to crowd Stiles either.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Stiles laments in hiccupping gasps.  “I’m sorry I can’t leave you two alone. I—I—just—I need you. I can’t—”

“What’re you talking about ‘leave us alone’?”

“You’re—you’re good without me. You’d be okay. I should—should let you. I should—”

“Listen to me,” Isaac interrupts. “Don’t ever talk like that, not _ever_ , Stiles.  We need you, too. It’s the three of us. Always. The three of us is what worked.  We would be fucking wrecked without you, you understand me?”

“I just—I—”

“All three,” Derek repeats.  “No favorites; all equal.  We can’t do this without you.”

Stiles never agrees with them, and Derek _hates_ that. He can’t bring himself to push too hard when Stiles is still crying miserably into Isaac’s shoulder. He doesn’t want the demand that Stiles repeat their sentiment to come out as an order; he definitely doesn’t want to hear an automated reply or send Stiles back into conditioning.  Instead he just continues to rub circles on Stiles back, trying to put into the soothing motion the comfort he can’t find words for.

 Eventually Stiles cries himself out. Isaac carries him back to the bedroom and the three of them settle into bed. He’s grateful it doesn’t trigger another episode; Stiles is distraught and exhausted enough without descending into another flashback right now.

 

************************************************************

 

Stiles sleeps restlessly; Derek too, after a while, but Isaac’s can’t.

Stiles’ words replay over and over: _I’m sorry I can’t leave you two alone. You’re good without me. You’d be okay. I should—should let you._

_Why would you say that, Stiles? How could you think it? How can you think you should walk away? How can you think we could ever let you? We’re terrified to lose you._

_We lose our fucking minds even when you’re just regressed._

At the thought Isaac realizes what Stiles wakes to after flashbacks or regressions.  Isaac and Derek in each other’s arms more often than not. Isaac and Derek work in tandem to help Stiles when things start going south.  From his view, they’re a team. IsaacandDerek with Stiles stuck on the side as a project.

_No, Stiles no.  We’re like that just trying to get through ‘til you’re okay again.  The best parts aren’t when me and Derek manage to get by with just two—it’s when we’re having a fucking awesome time with all three of us._

The idea that Stiles feels left out or less or troublesome instead of just feeling insanely fucking loved leaves Isaac feeling suffocated.  It’s wrong, _so_ wrong because Stiles is what brought them together—and not just Derek and Isaac, the whole fucking pack—and he shouldn’t ever have to doubt what an integral part he plays in their lives.

_How do I help him see it?_

Isaac silences his alarm before it goes off, not wanting it to startle the other two awake.  Stiles whines and reaches after him when Isaac rises from the bed.

"School,” Isaac says as a soft reminder, “but I can stay if you—”

“No, don’t skip,” Stiles replies.  “I’m okay.”

“I’ve got work after, but I’ll be home by five, okay?”

“Mmmhmm, have a good day.”

“You too; get some rest. Make Derek take you for curly fries,” Isaac suggests, kissing Stiles’ temple lightly.

“You say that like I would ever turn down curly fries,” Derek says, leaning up for a kiss of his own.  “You want us to bring you something by the school?”

“Nah, I’ll eat in the caf with Scott. No worries. See you two later.”

“Love you,” Stiles murmurs.  

“You too. Now go back to sleep.”

 

********************************************************

 

“Hey Doc?” Isaac says as he and Scott finish up for the day.

“Yes, Isaac?”

“Derek’s got a tattoo, but how does that work for werewolves? How do you keep it from healing?”

“Dude, you gonna get a tattoo?” Scott wonders excitedly.  “I’ve been wanting one for like _ever_ but Mom would totally flip.”

“It’s not terribly difficult,” Deaton answers, “just a bit painful.”

“How painful?” Scott wonders before Isaac can.

“The ink has to be mixed with traces of wolfsbane and mountain ash, so your body’s weakened enough and the healing can’t progress.”

Scott’s face clearly says he’s not so sure he wants a tattoo anymore, but Isaac doesn’t waver.  He’s had worse.

“Could you mix it for me?” Isaac wonders. “The ink I mean?”

“You have a tattoo in mind?” Deaton wonders. 

“Yeah, just—something I’ve been thinking about for a little while, but I think—I think maybe now’s the time to go through with it.”

“I’ve never done anything more complex that the spay lines on the animals,” Deaton admits, “but if it’s not too complicated I’m happy to help.”

Isaac has a feeling Deaton can guess where Isaac’s mind is going.  Whether that’s true or not, he’s grateful for the quick acquiescence.

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate it.”

 

*************************************************

 

“Tough day at the clinic?” Derek wonders when Isaac comes in almost an hour late.

“No, just—”

“Are you hurt?” Derek cuts in, trying not to panic as the lingering smells of wolfsbane, mountain ash, and blood waft in with Isaac’s scent.  “What—”

“I got a tattoo,” Isaac says with a sheepish grin. “I—uh—I mean, I’ve wanted it for a while and today just—it seemed like the day.”

“You got a tattoo?” Stiles repeats, mouth dropping open. “Cool! Let’s see it.”

Isaac turns his back to them then, lifting his shirt slowly to reveal the large triskele covering his upper back, identical to Derek’s.

"Holy shit! That looks awesome!” Stiles raves.

Isaac drops his shirt and turns back, looking uncertainly to Derek.

“I know it’s a Hale family symbol, but I thought—I mean we’re gonna be Hales soon enough anyway, right? And it’s all three of us, all equal, ya know?” he adds, glancing over toward Stiles. “So it’s kinda perfect? At least I thought so. I should’ve asked. I just—I really wanted something to…”

Isaac’s still talking, but Derek’s mind goes blank, repeating just two phrases: _We’re gonna be Hales soon enough…it’s all three of us, all equal. We’re gonna be Hales soon enough…it’s all three of us, all equal. We’re gonna be Hales soon enough…it’s all three of us, all equal._

They’ve said it hundreds of times; they’ve called dibs; they’ve sworn and made promises and declared intentions.  But this—this is something Isaac will carry for the rest of his life, something he can’t back out of, but something he chose to do anyway. A visible sign of his commitment to Stiles and Derek and the life together that the three of them keep vaguely planning.  It’s unexpected and overwhelming and Derek’s honest-to-god at a total loss for how to even begin responding to an act this poignant.

“Derek?”

He focuses back on the moment as Isaac calls his name.  Judging by the way they’re standing, Stiles moved forward to kiss Isaac, which isn’t a bad response, totally one Derek could copy if he could get his body to move or speak or cooperate at all.

“Are you pissed?” Isaac worries, biting at his bottom lip.

 _That_ spurs Derek to action because Isaac can’t be allowed to think Derek is anything less than elated in this fucking perfect moment.  He still can’t find words though, so instead he take the four swift steps he needs to bring his lips to Isaac’s, kissing him slow and deep and resisting the urge to strip off Isaac’s shirt so he can see the mark again.  When he pulls away, he finds Stiles mouth immediately, mirroring the kiss with Isaac.

“Hales,” he breathes with a smile once their lips part.

I _saac, Stiles, and Derek Hale._

_All three of us; all equal._

“Oh Hale yeah,” Stiles teases, shattering the sincerity in the best way possible. 

“Really, Stiles?” Isaac replies with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, come on; you can’t ask me to pass up an opportunity like that.”  He tugs at the hem of Isaac’s shirt.  “Let’s see it again.”

Isaac takes his shirt off completely this time, no longer hesitant to show off the symbol inked forever into his skin.  It’s clearly new, the skin around it angry and red, and that’s the only thing that keeps Derek from running his hand and mouth all over it. 

"Who did it for you?” Stiles wonders. “Deaton?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome. One of you grab the keys.  We’ll catch him before he leaves the office,” Stiles says, already heading for the door.  “I want one, too.”

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know I diverged from canon on the tattoo bit, but it was decided before 3x01 that they were getting tattoos and I didn't have the heart to blowtorch this Stiles :/ 
> 
> A shout-out for the many of you who wondered what it would be like when it occurred to Isaac and Derek how their boyfriend learned to be so good in bed. I know bree, and I think kinthinia, and others I'm now drawing a blank on :) thanks for your input on things!


	4. Sigh No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac turns eighteen.
> 
> Derek's keeping something from Stiles and Isaac.

            When Stiles said breakfast was for the sheriff’s first day back on day shift, Isaac didn’t try to add any other meaning.  When no one mentioned what day it was over breakfast, he glanced at his phone to make sure he hadn’t mistaken the date.  When Derek and Stiles said nothing on his way out the door, he tried not to look too downhearted.

            But it would seem that the all forgot today is his birthday.

            _You haven’t mentioned it.  You can’t really blame them._

He didn’t want them to make a big deal of it.  He definitely hadn’t wanted Derek to feel obligated to spend a bunch of money on something.  Hell, Isaac hadn’t even bothered to ask off work today.  He wasn’t the guy who needed his birthday to be the biggest event of the year; he just figured on maybe getting birthday breakfast and the promise of a little pack dinner tonight or something.  Something small and easy, but still kind of a birthday party.

            _I haven’t had a birthday party since Cam died._

“You okay?” Scott asks as Isaac climbs in the car. 

            “Yeah,” Isaac replies, “just tired.”

            If he says anything now, they’ll feel bad.  He’ll have to endure the hastily thrown together party they’ll put on for him knowing that they’re only doing it out of guilt.  He’s fine.  It’s not a big deal. There are more important things going on than his birthday.  It’s Friday night anyway.  He’ll just suggest having the pack over for a movie or something.  Maybe they can order in pizza and stuff.

            _Totally fine.  Who needs big, extravagant birthday plans anyway? Way too embarrassing to be the center of attention.  Better to just be chill with everybody._

*********************************************************

 

            By the time Derek and Stiles arrive at the site of the new house—it’s coming along nicely; the framing’s done and they’re nearly done with wiring and plumbing.  They’ll start to install insulation on Monday—Lydia is already there, supervising the poor souls sent to erect the big white tent she ordered for the evening.  This surprise party has been in the works for more than a month.  What started with asking Lydia’s advice on where to get a cake turned into Lydia taking over the role of party planner completely.  She’s ordered the tent, set up catering, designed the cake, and bought an insane amount of decorations.  It’s more than Derek meant it to be, but it’s going to be excellent.  He can’t fucking wait to see Isaac’s face.

            “You think we maybe should have told him?” Stiles wonders as walk up.

            “The whole point of a surprise party is that it’s a surprise, moron,” Lydia replies.    “I thought I told you not to skip school to help with this,” Derek says.  “We can handle it.”

            “Well, _Alpha,_ I’m respectfully ignoring that decree on the grounds that skipping school is better than having to castrate you both if you fuck up weeks of planning.”

            “Fair,” Stiles agrees with a smile that wavers when he says, “but seriously, maybe we should just let Scott tell him that—”

            _“Surprise_ party,” Lydia repeats, annoyed.

            “You didn’t see his face this morning,” Stiles says.  “I felt like I kicked a puppy.”

            “He’ll be fine,” Lydia insists.  “Scott will be nice to him at school.”

            Derek hopes she’s right because Stiles has a really good point.  Derek hated sending Isaac to school looking dejected on his birthday, but he’s pretty sure this surprise is going to make up for it.  Between the party and the present, it’s a safe bet all will be forgiven.

 

************************************************

 

            “Dude, are you sure you’re okay?” Scott asks at lunch.

            “Yeah, fine.”

            “Hey, my mom threw an extra cupcake in my lunch; you want it? I’m full,” he says, offering the hostess snack.

            It’s a lie; Scott’s never full, and definitely never too full for junk food, but Isaac appreciates the gesture, thinking bitterly that this shitty little thing might be the closest thing to a birthday cake he’s going to get today.  The attempt to keep a cheerful mood died quickly this morning.  Now he’s thoroughly sulking and a little pissed.

            _I mean how hard is it to program an alarm in your fucking phones? Really?_

“You got plans tonight?” Scott wonders.

            “I’m working ‘til six.”

            “After I mean,” Scott says.  “Mom’s working and I hate the house by myself.”

            “Dude, you can always crash the Stilinski place, you know that.”

            “Yeah, cool.  Might do that.”

 

**************************************************************

 

            “Bad day?” Derek asks when Isaac plops into the passenger seat of the Camaro.  “Did that yappy little poodle bite you again?”

            “No.”

            “Then what?”

            “Nothing.”

            Derek fights the urge to spill the beans right now because Isaac looks pissed and miserable.  He’s also fighting the urge to laugh at how much of a kid Isaac looks like slouched in the seat with his arms crossed, pouting as he stares out the window.

            “Home is the other way,” Isaac informs him when Derek takes a right out of the drive instead of a left.

            “I need to check on something at the house.  They’re supposed to start insulation Monday and they want to make sure I’m good with—”

            “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Isaac interrupts.  “That’s fine. I just thought we were going home.”

            “You sure you’re okay?”

            “I’m fine.  Scott was maybe coming over he said, but Stiles or the sheriff are there to let him in.  It’s whatever.”

            _Fuck. Poor Scott. I bet it killed him to keep the secret all day if you’ve been like this._

“Okay.”

            They ride in silence the rest of the way. The silence is broken only when Derek inexplicably stops the car halfway down the driveway.  He reaches in the glove box to pull out a blindfold. 

            “What the hell?”

            “It’s a surprise,” Derek answers with a grin. 

            “A surprise?”

            “Your birthday, you idiot.  Did you _really_ think we’d forget?”

            “I—I—” Isaac stammers, “I just thought—”

            “Put this on,” Derek interrupts, handing him the blindfold.  “Look at me,” he requests once Isaac has the cloth firmly tied.

            “I can’t see you now, dumbass.”

            “Just turn your head this way,” Derek insists, and Isaac obliges.  Derek makes a couple crazy faces, and when Isaac doesn’t crack a smile is satisfied he really can’t see anything.  “Okay, good.”

            “I knew you didn’t forget,” Isaac says, smile on his face now.  “I just—I dunno.”

            “You could’ve said something, you know,” Derek tells him.  “We had all these lame cover stories set up, but you just let it slide.”

            “I didn’t want to make a big deal.”

            “It’s your _birthday,_ Isaac. You’re allowed to make a big deal.”  When Isaac says nothing in reply he adds, “And for the record, _don’t_ let shit like that slide.  Call us the fuck out, okay? Accountability and shit.”

            “Yeah, okay,” Isaac answers.  “So surprise party?” Isaac wonders.  “Or did you get me an awesome present?”

            _Both._

            “It’s a _surprise_ ,” Derek reminds him.

 

************************************************

 

            Stiles can hardly contain himself as Derek brings Isaac around the side of the house. They’ve got lights hung from the tent.  A whole buffet of _insanely_ awesome food.  A tiered cake of every Marvel character Isaac has ever mentioned liking with two candles, a one and an eight, perched on top.  Streamers, balloons, a chocolate fountain, and Stiles could kiss Lydia for how fucking awesome everything looks out here.  Dad’s got the video camera out; their eyes will probably flare, but Dad insists anyway.    

“Wait right here,” Derek instructs, leaving Isaac to come stand with Stiles and the others; he’s grinning giddily and Stiles can’t resist a quick kiss to the back of Derek’s hand once it’s in his own.  “Okay, take it off now.”

Stiles can’t help holding his breath as Isaac’s hands come up to remove the cloth.

 _Be excited. Love it. Be happy,_ he hopes, suddenly, inexplicably apprehensive.

Isaac blinks twice once he’s free of the blindfold and then his face lights up with a dazzling smile as he takes in the sight.

“Holy shit!”

“Happy birthday!” Scott shouts.  “Dude, you know we couldn’t forget it.”

“This is—this is—too much, but—but thank you. I mean holy shit!”

“All Lydia,” Stiles says with a nod. 

“The credit card was Derek’s,” she allows, “but luckily for you I did step into the planning role early on.”

“I can’t believe you did all this. This is—it’s awesome.”

“Come on,” Stiles beckons.  “Check out this cake.”

 

*************************************************************

 

            Isaac’s been smiling so much for so long that his cheeks actually kind of hurt, but that’s okay.  Because of course they didn’t forget his birthday. Of course they wanted to do something special, and they fucking went all out for this shit.  He’s just a little self-conscious under Derek’s and Stiles’ watchful gazes; they’re getting more enjoyment out of watching him than the actual party.  Lydia reveals thoroughly unsophisticated party games—pin the tail on the donkey, a piñata, handkerchiefs for a three-legged race —and while she claims it’s because all the boys are giant five-year-olds anyway, she seems to have just as much fun as they do with the childish competitions, awarding horribly tacky trophies to the winners of each event. 

            When the time finally comes to open presents, Isaac doesn’t even care anymore.  Sure presents are great, but the _people_ are the whole point.  Even his dad always remembered presents, but an envelope with twenty bucks in it is nothing compared to the simple happiness radiating from the people he loves as they surround him or how relaxed and at home Isaac feels in their company.

The McCalls give him clothes that he’s pretty sure Scott had nothing to do with, a couple nice shirts and some slacks; they’re for college interviews and stuff Melissa says, and Isaac doesn’t have the heart to say he’s not so sure he’ll bother going anymore.  Jackson got him every Marvel movie available on Blu-ray. Lydia got him a new jacket. Stiles and the sheriff got him some new lacrosse gear.

            “I left your present from me around front,” Derek says.  “Hold on; I’ll get it.”

            Isaac’s not sure what it is, but he loves how excited Derek is.  With a grin like that on his face, it could be a heaping pile of horseshit, and Isaac would still claim it was the best present he ever received.

            “Watch over there,” Stiles tells him, pointing to the right side of the house.

            “What?”

            “Just watch.”

            When Derek rounds the corner in a bright red Jeep Grand Cherokee, Isaac’s jaw practically hits the ground. 

            “No way,” Isaac says dumbly when he finally finds his voice.  “No fucking way!” he continues as he sprints toward the car.

            “You bought me a car?!”

            “Happy birthday,” Derek says smiling as he gets out of the car.

            “You _bought me a car!_ ”

            Derek shrugs like it’s no big deal as Isaac runs his hands down the side of it, reassuring himself it’s real.

 “You need a way to get around; the pack needs a car that can fit plenty of people.  It’s an investment,” Derek says simply.

            “You bought me a fucking car! Are you serious? Derek, that’s—you’re insane! That’s—that’s too much. You—I—You bought me a car.”

            Derek laughs a little at Isaac’s incoherent repetition. “So you like it? Because the we can always take it back and get you the minivan instead.”

            “Holy shit, Derek! Of course I like it! I fucking _love_ it! Oh my God you _bought me a car_!”

            “Come on,” Derek beckons with a wave at the drivers’ seat.  “Give it a go.”

 

****************************************************************

 

Derek’s helping clean up even though Lydia told him not to worry about it.  The sheriff and Melissa are talking quietly as they gather up the trash.  Lydia and Derek are packing up leftovers.

“I think it’s safe to say he likes his present,” Lydia says with a nod to where Isaac’s still driving the car all around the clearing with Stiles and Scott and Jackson.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees with a smile.  “Looks like.”

Lydia’s still staring at him, and he fidgets under the scrutiny.

“What?”

“You are something else, you know that?” she asks.

“Shut up, Lydia.”

He doesn’t know exactly what she means. This sounds like a sentimental heart-to-heart though, and he’s got no interest in that.

“I mean it; you love the hell out them, don’t you?”

_Yes.  Now shut up about it._

“Took you this long to figure that out?” he teases. “Thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius.”

“I mean it—it’s—I’m happy for you,” she says. “I mean, I’m happy for them too, but I’m glad you finally let somebody in.  You’re a lot less of a sourwolf these days.”

“Fuck off.”

“I mean it.  Seriously. I was kind of scared it was going to blow up in everyone’s faces when you three got together.”

“Lydia, it was _your_ fucking idea.”

“There were a lot of variables.  I figured we were playing 60/40 odds.  It was enough to be worth the suggestion.”

“Stiles isn’t so much of a variable anymore.”

“He’s not the only variable I was worried about,” she says, and he doesn’t like the knowing look she gives him, like she can look at him and see all the scars that don’t show.  It’s a look that’s just shy of being pity, and he hates it.  “I bet it’s been a big adjustment for you.”

He shrugs; she’s not wrong.  It’s a hell of a lot to take in stride, and the idea that it’s the beginning of the rest of their lives makes him want to either bolt or hold on for dear life.  He hopes the side of him that wants to hold on keeps wining.

“I’m fine,” he replies firmly.  “We’re good.”

“Good.”

 

*******************************************************************************************

 

            Derek’s out the door almost the minute Isaac’s home from school, rushing off to meet with the contractor.  It’s not unusual, until he misses supper without texting or calling.  When he comes home, he doesn’t comment or offer any excuse when Stiles meets him at the door; he just reaches in the fridge for a soda.

            “Hey, you okay?” Stiles wonders.

            “Yeah, I’m good; why?” Derek answers, raising an eyebrow.

            “Just—you’re usually not gone that long without planning to be unless something’s bugging you.”

            “I met with the contractor. You know that.”

            “Yeah but you were gone like almost four hours, dude.”

            “I had some errands to run after.”

            _For what? You didn’t bring anything home._

“Oh,” Stiles replies, letting it drop because Derek’s allowed to do shit without reporting every moment back—even if it’s not like him.

            “Wanna order out for supper?” Derek wonders, changing the subject.  “I was thinking maybe Chinese?”

            “It’s almost eight o’clock. We ate already.”

            “Oh, well, I’m gonna order something. Go ask Isaac if he wants something he can take for lunch tomorrow.”

 

***************************************************************************************

 

            “Hey, Isaac, d’you work after school tomorrow?” Derek wonders as they sit watching Wipe Out, which Stiles finds unceasingly amusing no matter how fruitless the show may be.

            “Yeah, but I’m off Wednesday,” Isaac answers. “Why?”

            “Just—errands to run and stuff.  Nothing super important.”

            “I could come if you want to go tomorrow,” Stiles says.

            As much as he insists he doesn’t need a babysitter, they still never leave Stiles home alone.  Stiles maybe hates how much he loves them for it.  The fear of hurting people remains to be the greatest in his mind even now with all the successful outings.

            “I can stay in the car and you could—”

            “No, it’s fine,” Derek tells him, interrupting the offer.  “I’ll just go Wednesday.”

“I can hang out with Scott if—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll go Wednesday.”  

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah. No big deal.”

            It’s not a _big_ deal, but it’s not _nothing_ either.  Stiles just can’t figure out what it _is_.

 

*******************************************************************************************

 

            “You think we did this too quick?” Stiles wonders, tracing the lines of Isaac’s triskele through the thin white t-shirt clinging to his back.

            They’re sprawled on the couch watching re-runs.  It’s Friday afternoon, and Derek’s been gone on an errand for a while now—another errand that “isn’t a big deal” it’s “just stuff.” 

            “No,” Isaac replies. 

            “D’you think _Derek_ thinks we did this too quick?”

            “Dude, you saw how happy he was.”

            “It’s something though. I mean, he’s being weird, right? It’s something.”

            “Yeah,” Isaac agrees.  “You think it’s us?”

            _I really fucking hope it’s not, but I can’t help think it._

            “I mean—that’s kinda the first place my head goes.  Everything with the house is good.  The rest of the pack is good.   He’s been finding excuses to get out of the house, but he doesn’t want company.  I dunno—maybe we’re smothering him.  Maybe he needs—I dunno—space or something?”

            _Please let it just be needing space. It’s starting to freak me the fuck out, and I don’t want to let my head get too much free rein to come up with the countless problems that might be coming up._

            “Maybe.  That’s not so bad though, right? That’s normal.”

            “Except for the part where he doesn’t just say that.”

            “It’s Derek.  _Not_ saying that _is_ the most normal part.”

            “Touché,” Stiles concurs, “But do we just let him keep not talking about it?”

            “I don’t fucking know.   Maybe? Maybe it’s not even a thing.”

            “I’m probably just over-thinking it.”

            _It would be awesome if I’m just over-thinking it, but I really don’t think I am._

            “I mean we could mention it, I guess—just—ya know say something about it being okay to need space?” Isaac suggests. “Give him a chance to say it? Or to say whatever else it might be?”

            “Yeah, we could.”

            As far as healthy relationships go, their experience adds up to exactly zero.  It’s moments like this he can’t quite shake the feeling that they’re in so over their heads they’re never going to make it. Still, Stiles can’t help hoping; he continues to trace the spirals and focuses on all the _good_ things about the three of them that just work in an effort to drown out the doubts.  

            He mostly succeeds.

             

 

**********************************************************************************************

 

            “Are we freaking you out?” Isaac wonders.

            He’s on the way out the door for work; he knows it’s not the moment to ask, but it’s been bugging the ever-living shit out of him all weekend.  There’s no doubt something’s up, no doubt Derek’s using shitty excuses to get out of the house and away from them, no doubt that there’s something he doesn’t want to talk to Stiles and Isaac about. 

            “What?” Derek asks.

            “Me and Stiles and this whole—thing—I dunno—getting the triskelions—the whole commitment thing we’ve got going—is it too much? Are we starting to freak you out?”

            “No. I mean it’s—the tattoos were a big step or whatever, sure, but I’m not freaking out.”

            _God, I want so bad to believe you._

            “Why’re you asking me that?” Derek wonders.

            “You just—I dunno it seems like you’re gone more lately, and if you just—if you need space or whatever, you can _tell_ us that, you know? Like just talk to us.  I know everything with the three of us gets kind of intense so if you need a break sometimes—”

            “I don’t need space, Isaac; I’m fine.”

            “Oh.” _Then what the hell is up with you lately?_ “That’s—that’s good.”

            “You’re gonna be late.”

            “Yeah, I’m going just—if—if you ever do need space, you’ll just tell us right? Like don’t—don’t let us smother you and then you balk because we can’t take—”

            Derek silences the sentence with a kiss, and it doesn’t feel like he’s getting ready to run or leave or balk. It doesn’t feel hesitant or unsure or freaked out; it’s as firm and grounding as it always is.

“I’m _fine_ , Isaac,” Derek insists, eyes boring into Isaac’s. “Go to work.”

            “Yeah, see you tonight, okay?”

            “See ya then.”

            He tries to focus at work; he honest-to-God does, but he still can’t get it out of his head. 

            _What would be wrong that he wouldn’t tell us? Is it the relationship? Is it the pack? Why can’t you just fucking talk to us?_

 

****************************************************************************************************

 

            “So how are things?” Lydia wonders as she and Stiles drive toward Starbucks, the standing Sunday afternoon plan; Stiles is trying not to think about how Derek was in the Camaro and backing down the drive the moment Lydia’s car door shut behind Stiles.

            _What is he running from? Or running to? What are we missing?_

            “They’re good,” Stiles answers distractedly

It’s not entirely a lie. Shit hasn’t hit the fan _yet._

            “How are they really?”

            “Good,” Stiles insists.  “I mean, nothing worse than the usual—”

            “Isaac or Derek?”

            “Lydia, it’s—”

            “ _Isaac_ or _Derek_?” she repeats.

            “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

            “So what? Tell me anyway.”

            “It’s probably nothing.  We’re over-reacting.”

            “About _what_?”

            “Derek keeps—he keeps making these really lame excuses to leave for a couple hours here and there.”

            “Maybe he just needs some space. I’m sure it’s—”

            “That’s what we thought, but he swears it’s not it.  He got kind of pissed when I even suggested it yesterday; Isaac asked, too, just an hour ago when he was headed to work, but Derek swears it’s nothing.  He keeps saying he’s fine.”

            “Anything else it could be?”

            “I dunno; that’s what bugs me.  He won’t say where he goes or what it’s for or anything. Just says ‘errands’ and not to worry about it.”

            _But of course we’re going to fucking worry about it.  Derek refusing to talk is the first sign that something’s really, truly bothering him._

“Well, either you care enough that you pay Danny to track his cell phone GPS,” Lydia replies, “or you confront him about it.”

            “We’re not _tracking_ him.”

            “Then talk to him about it.”

            “We tried; he—”

            “You’re dating Derek Hale.  You thought communication was going to be easy?”

            “No, but I don’t want it to be a fight.  I don’t want him to think we don’t trust him. I just—”

            “You’re worried about him,” she says simply.  “You two know him better than anyone, and if you get the feeling something’s up, it probably is.  Just keep trying to talk to him.”

 

***********************************************************************************************

 

            Derek pulls his phone from his pocket when it starts ringing. Lydia’s name flashes on the caller ID.  He should’ve guessed she’d call.  She can read the whole pack with startling accuracy and she’s surely picked up on Stiles’ worries by now.  He wonders what Stiles has told her.  He wonders if she’s still with Stiles or if it’s just Lydia on the other end. 

            His thumb hovers over the screen for a few moments more before he rejects the call.  He turns the phone on silent when she calls back immediately and shoves it back in his pocket. 

            _I know you want to help, but you don’t belong in the middle of this. Just leave it alone, Lydia._

 

**********************************************************************************************

 

            Stiles and Isaac are both waiting at the kitchen table when Derek walks in.  The somber looks on their faces have apprehension building in his chest before the door even shuts behind him.

            “What’s wrong?” Derek asks, fearful of the answer.

“That’s what we were going to ask you, actually,” Stiles replies.

            “Jesus Christ,” Derek mutters, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he held. “I thought something was seriously wrong.  You—”

            “ _Is_ something wrong?” Isaac asks.  “’Cause something’s up with you, and you won’t tell us anything about it and we’re—”

            “I’ve told you a million times that I’m fine.  You don’t have to worry—”

            “Well, we do!” Stiles replies, frustration no longer held in check.  “You know we do, Derek, and you keep brushing this off and dodging questions and—”

            “And maybe I don’t want to talk about it,” Derek replies.

            _Maybe I don’t even know how the fuck to start talking about it.  Maybe I’m embarrassed as hell I’m even freaking out about this. Maybe I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing._

“You can talk to us about anything—everything—you know that,” Stiles persists.

            “I don’t need to talk about anything. It’s just—it’s nothing—it’s fine.”

            “It’s _something_. Otherwise you wouldn’t have a problem talking about it.”

            “Oh my God, it’s not that big of a fucking deal!”

            “Then just _tell us_ what the hell’s going on with you,” Isaac demands.  “You’re off on errands but you never come home with anything.  You disappear for hours here and there but say it’s not ‘cause you need space.  You left without saying anything this afternoon and now you’re back six hours later and—”

            “You want to know where I was? You’re really that fucking bothered that you can’t account for every goddamn thing I do and that there are some things I don’t fucking talk about the minute you want me to? Okay, fine!” Derek snaps back, digging into the pocket of his jeans.  “I was getting these, okay? I’ve been looking for these.”

            He slaps the three silver bands on the table and heads out the back door because he can sense the defenses rising as the feeling of vulnerability engulfs him, and it’s too close to the full moon for fights.

 

***********************************************************************************

 

“Holy shit,” Isaac mumbles, eyes glued to the table.

There’s a weird feeling in his gut—something between butterflies in his stomach and getting sucker punched—and he can’t quite manage to draw a full breath.

_This is what you’ve been freaking about?_

 “Are those—those are—those are rings.”

 “Well, thank God you solved that part of the riddle, Stiles.”

“Fuck you, what am I supposed to say? Those are rings, Isaac. Those are _wedding_ rings.”

“I can fucking see that.”

 Isaac reaches slowly to pick up one of the bands, as though it might burn him when he touches it.  They’re silver—well, titanium now that he looks closer—and the outside is embellished with an engraving of three strands braided into an unending circle.  It’s another moment before he sees the word inscribed on the inside: “dibs”

 It’s so fucking perfect he doesn’t even have words, he just puts it back on the table to bolt out the door in the next instant.  Derek’s pacing in the yard, hands running through his hair, and Isaac can’t help that he all but tackles him.  Derek catches his weight easily enough though, and Isaac surges in for a kiss.  Derek kisses back fiercely, trying, as always, to put into actions what he struggles to put into words.  Stiles is there in the next moment, arms encircling Derek from behind.

“We fucking love you; you know that?” Stiles wonders.

“Yeah,” Derek answers quietly, “I know. I just—I didn’t know if you’d—I mean I wanted something—because I know you both got the triskelions but I—I had mine before, and that doesn’t mean it doesn’t remind me of you two, but it’s—I wanted something _just_ about us and then I didn’t—I didn’t know what—or if we should all have ‘em—or if it’s something we should do now since Isaac kind of already started us—or I should ask again like sappy and official or something and _then_ give then—or if we’re doing some fucking ceremony—or hell—I don’t even know if you even want the damn things—or if—”

“If we want them?” Isaac interrupts.  “Derek, they’re _perfect._ ”

And Isaac decides right then that there is absolutely nothing more adorable in the entire world than Derek Hale blushing, shy smile on his face as he looks from Isaac to Stiles. 

 

****************************************************************

 

            Derek doesn’t entirely remember the trip back in the house or up the stairs, but by the time Stiles is pushing him back on the bed, they’re all naked and panting and wanting and _God_ but he loves these two.   When Stiles goes down on Derek, Isaac moves in to take his mouth, sweeping his tongue in deep and leaving Derek breathless once he pulls away.

            “Derek?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Fuck me?”

            Derek’s first thought is, _Oh, hell yes,_ but then Stiles freezes, gripping more tightly than he probably means at Derek’s thigh.  Derek hesitates, eyes darting down as though he could see through Isaac to Stiles, and Isaac understands.

            “I mean—we don’t—we don’t have to—slow—right—sorry.”

            “Well, slow yeah but we’ve—we’ve done pretty much everything else, right?” Stiles says.  “If you’re good with it then—”

            “Dude, I am _so_ fucking good with it.”

            _Fuck, Isaac you just can’t say shit like that. Oh my God. You seriously want me to fuck you? Because holy fucking hell…_

“Okay,” Stiles says, “Derek?”

            “Yeah, if you’re good then—”

            For a moment Derek thinks Stiles is retreating, but then he realizes he’s just pulling lube from the bedside table.  He joins then on the bed again, pressing it into Derek’s hand as he moves in for a kiss.

            “I—uh—I might mostly voyeur this round,” Stiles says. 

            “Sure,” Derek agrees.  “If you want to wait—”

            “No, I’m good,” Stiles promises.  “Go for it,” he adds with a grin and quick kiss to Isaac.  “I’ll enjoy the show.”

           

***************************************************************

 

            He knows Isaac wants it, sees the way he throws his head back and groan in _pleasure_ not pain as Derek works him open, and yet Stiles is still trembling just slightly.  He’s focused on keeping a neutral face, even breathing, and stroking himself just enough to stay hard as he watches.  Derek props Isaac’s legs over his shoulders as he lines himself up to push in slowly; Isaac’s breath hitches, and Stiles can’t breathe either for a moment as he watches worriedly, something dark clawing at his soul and screaming for them to stop. 

            “You okay?” Derek asks.

            “Yeah, good, gimme a sec,” Isaac requests.

            “Stiles?”

            “I’m okay,” he says, words coming out small and quiet but still true enough that he can smile and mean it.

            “If you’re not—”

            “No, I’m good,” he swears. 

            “Move, Derek,” Isaac requests. “Please?”

            Derek’s gentle, of course he’s fucking gentle, holding back any instincts to claim and dominate in favor of making this moment as pleasurable as possible for them both.   Because _this_ is what sex is supposed to be. _This_ is how it’s supposed to work.  People watching each other with love in their eyes not a hunger for power.  

            “Fuck, yes, like that,” Isaac moans.  “Oh, my God, right there.”

            Isaac’s never quiet when he doesn’t have to be, moaning and cursing as the moment builds.  Stiles closes his eyes, savoring the sounds as he tightens his fist around his own cock, imagining what it would feel like to be the one drawing those sounds from Isaac, wondering what it much feel like to be fucked and _enjoy_ it because _God_ Isaac clearly is. 

            _I get to find out.  I can’t yet but I will and it’s going to be fucking awesome and—_

Derek comes first, gasping, “Fuck, Isaac,” and Isaac implores, “God, I’m so fucking—close—Oh my God!” Isaac cries, last words fading out into a moan of ecstasy.

           Stiles opens his eyes again in time to see Isaac throw his head back as he shoots all over Derek’s torso, the sated, spent grins on both their faces have Stiles smiling too as he continues to work on his own cock, closing his eyes again, losing himself in the glorious picture of Isaac and Derek together. 

            He doesn’t realize they’ve parted until Derek says, “Stiles?” from just a few feet away.

           “Yeah?” he asks.

           “You okay?”

            “Uh-huh,” he replies, and he doesn’t realize tears have escaped his eyes until Derek leans down slowly to kiss them away. 

           “You sure?”

           “Yeah—I just—”

_I’ve never seen it be good. I mean, yeah sure some porn before they took me, but God every single goddamn time since then was just blood and pain and—fucking Peter was the closest to good that I ever experienced firsthand until right now—and now it’s the two people I fucking love more than anything and just—God watching this, knowing I’ll get this, knowing I’ll keep you just—it’s too much, but in the best fucking possible way._

            “Little overwhelming,” he admits. “But not bad,” he assures with a smile.

            “Can I help with that?” Derek asks, glancing down to where Stiles is still mostly erect, grinning and raising an eyebrow in that goddamn insanely adorable way he has.

            Stiles nods and Derek kneels.  His breath is hot against Stiles thigh, and it sends a tingle of pleasure right down to his toes.  Derek swirls his tongue around the head a few times before sucking Stiles in as far as he can manage, using his hand to make up for the tricks his mouth hasn’t mastered yet.  Stiles runs his fingers though Derek’s hair, and it’s not long before he’s coming hard, moaning Derek’s name as Derek swallows around him.

            “Fuck, you are fucking fantastic, you fucker,” Stiles murmurs, slumping back into the chair. 

            “Are you always this articulate?” Derek teases, scooping Stiles limp body up and depositing him on the bed next to Isaac who looks like he’d be ready to go for round two if it was physically possible.

            They lie in a tangle of limbs for a while.  They should move, clean up, get dressed, all that—but none of them are quite ready to stray away just yet.  Stiles’ eyes end up focused on the third finger of his left hand where it’s splayed on Derek’s chest for the moment, and _God_ he can’t fucking wait for the weight of the ring waiting downstairs to find its home there.

 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Shout-out to the platonic love of my life, the lovely Dana for the way the ring bit played out. She's an invaluable sounding board :) 
> 
> title from the Mumford and Sons song
> 
> Cake is something akin to this: http://happysugarbakingland.typepad.com/.a/6a011570088124970c0133f517d99c970b-320wi
> 
> Ring is something akin to this:  
> https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQaguHtBwJgbiK5uZTlxtThrVuwnUQnc5Mz02Men_NhDbA9ZnsJ


	5. Your Hand In Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek treks downstairs, pausing at the table to look down at the three bands still lying there. It’s still more than a little surreal to think that he bought them. It’s even more surreal that Isaac and Stiles want them, didn’t even hesitate to accept them the moment Derek revealed what he’d been thinking, and then started talking about ceremonies and honeymoons and shit as pillow talk last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Explosions in the Sky song.

Derek wakes before the others. They stir as he leaves the bed.

            “Go back to sleep,” he tells them.  “I’ll come get you when breakfast is ready.”

            “Chances of breakfast in bed?” Isaac wonders.

            “Slim to none.”

            “We’ve played worse odds,” Stiles mumbles.

            “Go back to sleep.”

            Derek treks downstairs, pausing at the table to look down at the three bands still lying there.  It’s still more than a little surreal to think that he bought them.  It’s even more surreal that Isaac and Stiles want them, didn’t even hesitate to accept them the moment Derek revealed what he’d been thinking, and then started talking about ceremonies and honeymoons and shit as pillow talk last night.

            _We love you, you know that?_

_Of course we want them; they’re perfect._

He smiles as he picks them up again, putting them in the pocket of the jeans he had thrown on before coming downstairs.  The smell of French toast fully rouses Stiles and Isaac soon enough.  Stiles frowns when he walks in the kitchen.

            “Where’d our rings go?”

            “Can’t have them yet,” Derek replies.

            “Why not?” Stiles whines, frowning; he’s fucking adorable when he gets pouty in the mornings, hair still swept to the side from sleep and eyes bleary. 

            “Because.”

            “ _Derek._ ”

            “I’m talking to your dad first.”

            “What?  
            “I’m talking to your—” Derek repeats, overemphasizing each word.

            “I heard you, asshole; _why_? I’m eighteen. He knows we’re together. He—”

            “—Is still your dad.”

            “Yeah, but what if he doesn’t like it? I mean he’s probably not going to like it.  You know he—”

            “He’s the closest thing to a dad any of us have got, Stiles,” Derek says tersely.  “We’re doing this with or without his blessing, but we can at least give the man a chance to feel like he’s part of it instead of blind-siding him like we usually do. I was gonna ask before you knew I had rings, but then—”

            “Well, I’ll be damned.  Derek Hale, you’re a proper gentleman.”

            “Fuck off.”

            “I think you’re right,” Isaac offers.  “I think we should talk to him before anything gets official or whatever.”

            “It would probably improve the odds of everyone making it through this without being shot,” Stiles concedes with a grin. 

 

************************************************

“Morning boys,” Dad greets as he walks in.  “Thanks, Derek,” he says, taking the plate of French toast that’s handed to him.

            Stiles doesn’t realize that Derek still means to talk to Dad alone until it’s already happening.

“I—uh—I need to speak with you about something today,” Derek says awkwardly, and Stiles can’t help grinning at how nervous he is.  “I know you’re probably tired from your shift but—”

            “Something wrong?”

            “No, sir, just—just need to talk to you.”

            Derek’s answer may be ambiguous, but his eyes flicker to Isaac and Stiles and the worry on Dad’s face is evident.  He looks down at his watch.

            “Okay, let’s talk now.  Half an hour until Isaac has to leave for school.  That enough?”

            “Yes, sir, I think so.”

            _Dammit Derek, he’s all grumpy when he’s tired. Why didn’t you just wait ‘til later?_

“Come on; we’ll go for a drive.”

 

***************************************************

 

            They’re four blocks away when the sheriff breaks the silence with an order, “Okay, pull over and start talking before I have a heart attack worrying.”

            “I didn’t mean to make you worry; I just—”

            “Son, we may get along fine, but you never _want_ to talk to me.  So tell me what’s wrong.”

            “Nothing’s wrong. I just—I—”

            _I had a whole speech worked out and now I can’t remember any of it. Fuck. Shit_ _. It was—I was going to say—godammit!_

“Derek?”

            “I—uh—I bought rings,” he says lamely because God help him it’s all he can do to get words out. 

            “Rings?” the sheriff repeats. 

            “I bought wedding bands,” Derek says, reaching in his pocket.  “But I wanted to talk to you before—”

            His sentence is cut off as the sheriff’s worried face dissolves into near-hysterical laughter.  Derek’s not sure what to make of it; in truth, he can’t help feeling a little wounded.  Still, it’s better than anger, so he smiles faintly as the sheriff’s laughter finally dies down.

            “I’m sorry—I—I’m not laughing at you, Derek.  That’s—it’s a very serious step to take, I know that. It’s just not—not at all where I thought this was headed with that serious look you had on your face.  You looked like you were headed to the firing squad.  I was ready to hear some rival pack was coming through or hunters or something that involved the potential for lots and lots of bloodshed.  Not _good_ news!”

            “Good news?” Derek repeats.

            “Yes,” the sheriff answers with a broad and genuine smile.  “ _Very_ good news.”

            “Oh,” Derek says, feeling a grin stretch across his own face. 

            “Derek, I’ve watched you and Isaac and Stiles for months now.  There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you will do everything you can to keep those two happy and healthy and safe and loved for the rest of their lives.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And there’s no doubt in my mind they’ll do the same for you,” the sheriff goes on.  “You three have made it through more in a few months than anyone should have to deal with in a whole lifetime, and you’ve done it together. I may have had my doubts to begin with, but there’s no denying this has been an anchor for all of you.”  


            Derek nods, not trusting his voice.

            “I’m not giving you my permission,” he continues, and Derek’s chest clenches for just a moment before the sheriff goes on, “because you don’t need it; you’ve proven your worth as a partner to those boys. They’re eighteen.  You could do this whether I wanted it or not, and you _should._   I _will_ though, without a second of hesitation give all three of you my _blessing_ because I think you’re going to have an excellent life together.”

 

***************************************************************

 

            “He’s not going to freak, right?” Stiles says, pacing nervously around the room as Isaac gets ready.

            “I mean he hasn’t had a problem so far,” Isaac reasons. “It should be fine.”

            _Should be. Hopefully. Please?_

Isaac hopes this goes well because Derek’s right. The sheriff’s the closest thing to a Dad any of them have got anymore.  Having him on their side is important to all of them, but especially Stiles. He doesn’t want to see Stiles made to pick between them and his dad. 

            “They’re back,” Stiles says, sprinting downstairs at the sound of the car pulling back into the driveway; Isaac’s hot on his heels. 

            They look out the front window to see both Derek and the sheriff exit the car silently, faces somber.

            _Oh fuck. Fuck. Shit._  


“What the hell?” Stiles mutters. “S _hit._ ”

            He hurries to the door, pulling it open as they come up the stairs.

            “Dad, I know it probably sounds crazy, but—”

            He can’t finish the sentence before his Dad breaks into a grin and envelops him in a hug. 

            “Just fuckin’ with you, kiddo.  You should know I’m thrilled for you boys.”

            “Oh my _God,_ Dad!”

            The sheriff’s laughing outright along with Derek.

            “You asshole,” Isaac mutters with a glare at Derek who shrugs unapologetically. 

            “His idea,” he replies with a nod to the sheriff.

            “Oh, come on, I’m entitled to putting you in a little hot water for a second.”

            “You suck, Dad,” Stiles informs him.  “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

 

******************************************************

 

            “Why are you home?” Derek asks as he meets Isaac at the door.   “Is something—”

            “How the hell am I supposed to focus on anything at school today?” Isaac replies.  “It’s a lost cause.”

            “Isaac—”

            “Come on, Derek.  It’s going to drive me crazy.  I’ve got like a billion questions; I know you guys do too. So it won’t kill us if I miss one day of school and we talk about this.”

            As much as Derek wants to argue, as much as he _should_ argue, Isaac’s right.  There’s so much to talk about and Derek’s mind has been racing all morning with endless questions.  Isaac’s being truthful when he says he can’t focus on anything else.

            “I’m with Isaac on this one,” Stiles agrees wholeheartedly.  “I wanna know what we’re doing with all this.”

            “Yeah,” Derek says.  “We should talk.  There’s a lot to figure out.”

 

*****************************************

 

            “So at—at the risk of sounding really morose here,” Stiles says.  “I—uh—I kinda of want to go ahead and do this like as soon as fucking possible because there’s never any telling when shit is going to hit the fan with us and—”

            _And I don’t know when I’ll regress again or if something could happen to you two or all kinds of fucking awful shit that could rain down on us._

“—And I just want that ring on my finger soon,” he finishes.

            “Me too,” Isaac says. “The rest of the pack’s going to kill us if we just up and get married without telling them, though.”

            “Especially Lydia,” Stiles agrees with a nod.

            “What if we do the rings just the three of us?” Derek suggests.   “Nothing like a formal ceremony or anything just—just us.  And then we could do like a party later—or a reception or whatever you call it for weddings.  Lydia can plan that and everybody can come and shit and that way we’d kind of get both?”

            “I don’t want to make you guys rush into this,” Stiles hedges.  “It doesn’t have to be—”

            “Stiles, I went out and bought wedding rings,” Derek interjects.  “I’m fucking ready to do this the second you two are.”

            “So what about now?” Isaac says.

            “What?” Stiles replies, flabbergasted.  “Like—like _right_ now?”

            “At the new house, by the pond,” Isaac continues.  “If you guys want to.”

            “Holy shit,” Stiles replies.

            He wants to; he really, _really_ wants to, but there’s still something mind-boggling in the prospect that he could be married an hour from now.

            “I’m in,” Derek says.  “Stiles?”

            “I—uh—yeah.”

            “We can wait if you want,” Isaac offers.

            “No, let’s do this,” Stiles counters.  “As long as no one here expects some super poetic vows, we’re good.”

            “Wait, I have to say something?” Derek teases, mock panic on his voice.

            “Haha, very funny.”

 

***********************************************************

 

            Isaac can’t help the dopey grin on his face as they pull up the drive.  The house is going to be finished in just a couple of weeks—December 21st, so just in time for Christmas—and he still can’t quite believe it’s all happening.  Maybe the past few months have been trying as hell, but it doesn’t negate the fact that he’s gotten practically everything he could have hoped for: he’s got two men who love him and want to spend the rest of their lives with him, a fucking gorgeous home, a pack that’s like family—complete with a mother and father figure even if he can’t have his biological parents back—and the promise that all that can keep getting even better.  Sometimes he gets stretched so thin he could scream and he wants to run and never look back—not so unlike his desire to follow Erica and Boyd when they decided to run from all the kanima bullshit—but, in the end, he’s glad he stayed.  He told Scott back then he came to win, and there’s no way he could’ve known just how fucking true those words would be.

            He’s the luckiest guy in the world, even when it doesn’t always feel like it; now he just has to figure out how the fuck to tell them that.  He’s running through words in his head the whole way up the trail to the pond, but everything sounds too cheesy or too shallow or just not quite what he wants to say. The next thing he knows they’re suddenly to the pond.   Derek’s pulling out the rings, holding them out in his palm as the three of them stand waiting.

            “So what now?” Stiles says.  “We just—just going to start talking or—”

            “I’ll go,” Derek blurts, and Isaac gets the feeling he’s just trying to get the words out before he totally stresses.

 

***********************************************************

 

            Derek takes a deep breath, trying to get his pulse to calm.

            _Jesus Christ, I want this to happen. Why the hell am I so freaked? I’m the one who bought the damn rings. What the fuck?_

But he knows why he’s freaked.  He knows exactly why.  And it’s that knowledge that propels his words.

            “It’s been a long time since I—” he hesitates because the words sound too cheesy, too force, but they’re true dammit, so he keeps going, “Since I trusted anyone.  But you know the absolute worst shit about me, and you’re still here.  Even when I fucking suck at talking and run out all the time and—and all that shit, you don’t hate me for it.  I trust you two so much it scares the hell out of me.  I can’t help it.  I _want_ to let you in. I want you to be here; I want to be there for you every fucking day for the rest of my life.”  


            He stops there before the mushy rambling can go any further.  It’s simple and honest and exactly how he feels about this.  He still doesn’t know why they’d want to stick around; he still doesn’t think he deserves to have all this; but he’s got it and he damn sure doesn’t ever want to let it go.

            “Which one’s yours?” Stiles asks with a watery smile, fingers hovering over the bands in Derek’s outstretched right hand.  “This one?”

            “Yeah.”

            Stiles picks it up and looks to Isaac who grabs Derek’s left.  He’s got a grin on his face that clearly says he’s about to joke the sentimentality back down a notch, and Derek’s glad to see it.

            “Derek Hale,” Stiles says with a too serious face.  “Do you hereby call dibs on the rest of our lives? No matter what awesomeness or hellish shit may come?”

            Derek can’t help the huff of laughter, rolling his eyes but smiling as he answers, “I do.”

            Isaac’s fingers cover Stiles’, and together they slide the ring on the third finger of Derek’s left hand. 

            _It feels like it belongs there._

**********************************************************************

 

            “I love both of you,” Isaac says, starting once their hands leave Derek’s.  “You know that—at least I hope you do—and I—” He pauses, because as true as it may be that he was dying and could only think of them and that’s what led to the proposal and this moment, it still doesn’t seem like the thing to say now.  “I’ve wanted a family to care about for a long time, and to get not just the family the pack is but to get you two, and to be able to build a life with you two, it’s just—” he smiles and laughs to keep from crying.  “It’s more than I could ask for, and I want to keep it forever.” 

            He shrugs at the end, throat closing too quickly with emotion to say much else.  He feels like the words aren’t enough, but the way Derek and Stiles are looking at him they know how Isaac feels without needing the speech. 

            “Isaac Lahey,” Derek says, unable to keep his face as stoic as Stiles managed to.  “Do you hereby call dibs on the rest of our lives? No matter what awesomeness or hellish shit may come?”

            “Yeah, I do.”

 

**************************************************************

 

            For once in his life, Stiles stands truly speechless.  There’s so much he wants to say right now: how much he loves them, how much it means that they’ve stood by him through all this shit—are willing to bear his burdens with him for the rest of his life, how far they’ve all come despite the endless obstacles thrown in the way, how much they’ve grown—individually and together—these past months, how much farther they’ll go together, how ecstatic he is at the idea of sharing the rest of his life with these wonderful, _wonderful_ men who for some unfathomable reason love him beyond his understanding. 

            But he can’t find the words for it, though they wait patiently as he blinks back tears, and finally he manages, “You keep me going, you know that? And maybe it’s not going to be perfect, but it’s going to be awesome.  All three of us; all equal; all awesome.”

            “Stiles Stilinski,” Isaac says, knowing better than to use Stiles’ given name.  “D’you hereby call dibs on the rest of our lives? No matter what awesomeness or hellish shit may come?”

            “Hell yeah.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) 
> 
> Now, go read it again; soak in the fluff, even if it's so sweet you're getting cavities. 
> 
> Because you just may need some extra fluff to wear like armor when you go into the next chapter 
> 
> Shout-out to Kinthinia and others who wanted more about the rings (more may yet come, but this shall suffice for a while I hope)


	6. Get Up In The Morning, Put My Dreams Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some nights of torture so bad that Stiles' psyche blocked them on their own; when those atrocities get triggered, can his mind take it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Dead Man's Bones song "Lose Your Soul"
> 
> So, codarra( one of the betas for this work) got this angst-party started with a prompt that spiraled into this chapter. I told you you might rue the day we too twisted souls ever met. 
> 
> Kleenex at the ready? fluffy epilogue open to remind you it turns out okay? good. you may now proceed.

            “ _Fuck,_ yes!” Stiles gasps as Isaac’s lips close around the head of his cock.             

            Derek chuckles a little at his exuberance as he muffles Stiles’ exclamations with a sloppy kiss.

           When they break away, Stiles pants, “I want—I want one of you to fuck me.”

            Isaac and Derek freeze almost in unison.

            “Stiles—”

            “I know; I know,” he says, “I just—I _want_ to know how it’s _supposed_ to feel.  God, I want it so bad and I just—I can’t handle watching one of you get fucked again and—”

            “Fuck me,” Derek counters, “I—”

            “Derek, _please_?”

            “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

            “Not yet, but I think you know what to do,” he replies teasingly. 

            “Stiles, I’m serious,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

            “Me too.  I want this.  I want to try.  _Please_?”

            “Tell us to stop if it’s too much,” Isaac says.  “Don’t you dare try to play it off if—”

            “I won’t; I swear. You don’t even have to actually fuck me if you don’t want to. Just finger me or _something_ , but I want to feel that.”

            “You want that, Stiles?” Derek asks in his ear, knowing that Stiles responds to words almost  as much as touch.  “You want to come with my fingers in your ass and Isaac’s hands on your dick?”

            “Oh my _god_ yes!”

 

***************************************************************

           

 

"How did we get lucky enough that you’re ours?” Isaac asks, arms running down Stiles’ shoulders as he straddles him and leans in to kiss him as Derek begins to work him gently open. 

Something in the words combines with the sensation of Derek’s fingers entering him, and a foreboding sense of déjà vu floods over him.

_It doesn’t take long for him to realize where they’re taking him.  He’s lived in this house his whole life.  As much as he’s longed for this place ever since he woke in the clutches of his captors, he’d rather be anywhere else in the world right now.  Dad’s in there, and he’s been though enough lately; Mom’s been gone almost six months, but he’s still got that emptiness in his eyes Stiles hates so much._

_Please just leave. Take me back wherever the fuck you want to keep me.  Just please don’t hurt my dad. I can’t lose him too._

_He’d hate to, but he’d consider begging if it were an option.  It’s not though.  The rag in his mouth secured with duct tape makes it nearly impossible to breathe much less spare air for muffled pleas.  His heart rate skyrockets as the one they call Thomas drags him out of the car.  Alec’s right behind them, keeping an eye for nosy neighbors, but it’s three in the morning.  There’s no one to see them.  There’s no one to help him._

_His pulse continues to climb; he struggles against his bonds and Thomas’ grasp.  He feels the pinch as his claws begin to extend, feels fangs descend against the cloth in his mouth._

_What the hell kind of monster am I now? Seriously a werewolf? What did they do to me?_

_Alec’s claws extend as well digging deep in his shoulder._

_"Stop that. We prefer your human form.”_

_"Not claws,” Thomas says.  “That’s too much mess.”_

_“Then what?”  
"I’ll take him upstairs.  See if you can’t find us an iron.”_

_No, no, no no, please no, he begs mentally as Alec chuckles softly and heads off to search the house._

_Stiles still isn’t sure if this whole superhuman healing thing is a blessing or a curse.  He’d have been dead ten times over if he couldn’t heal like this, but then again, it means they can hurt him more and more often without worrying about killing him.     He wonders for the millionth time what the fuck this end game even is.  Why him? Why go to all this trouble? Who the fuck is the Derek guy they keep talking about? What the fuck is wrong with these lunatics?_

_Huh. Lunatics. And they’re werewolves. Nice._

_Not nice, but hey, Stiles has always been one to retreat into humor in times of stress, of course, there’s not a enough humor in the world to downplay this shit._

_Thomas shoves him toward the stairs.  Stiles stumbles and can’t catch himself, face slamming into the banister.  Thomas catches him by the back of his neck, cursing._

_“Worthless piece of shit. Can’t even walk a straight line.”_

_Well, I’m bound, gagged, beaten, and I’m shaking like hell because odds are you’re about to kill me and my dad so yeah, you fucking psycho I’m a little unsteady on my feet._

_It’s both no time at all and an eternity before they have him stripped and splayed out on the bed, gag still firmly in place, face shoved into the mattress so far he can barely breathe even through his nose.  Thomas looms over him, teasing Stiles with the heat of the iron radiating over his exposed skin; Stiles closes his eyes, trying to steel himself for the pain because if he wakes up Dad and Dad comes in here they’ll kill him for sure._

_“You persist your father will come for you?” Thomas taunts.  “You think the people you care about will never give up the search?”_

_I don’t think it.  I know it. They’ll never give up on finding me. Especially Dad. Dad won’t ever give up on me.  He’ll get me eventually._

_“He’s asleep, you worthless little shit.  You’ll scream in pain and beg for mercy, and he’ll sleep through all of it.  His pathetically human senses are dulled even further from liquor.  He won’t even know you’re here.  He doesn’t care. He’s given up on you already.  No one is going to help you. No one will come for you.  You belong to us now.”_

_“Never!”_

_The word is nothing more than a muffled grunt, but the intonation of it is clear enough.  The hot metal sinks into his skin, scalding the flesh until Stiles chokes and gags on the smell.  Again and again Thomas brings the sweltering iron onto his body, he can’t stop the screams or the sobs or the tears, sure he’s going to suffocate and half wishing he just would._

_“He’s right there; right downstairs.  He could come.  He could try to save you.  He won’t though.  No one is coming for you.  You are ours to use as we want.  There is nothing else for you.  You belong to us.”_

_“No,” he sobs defiantly._

_No. I’m not yours. I’m not. I’m going to get away. I’ll figure out how to get away. Or Dad will come. He won’t stop looking.  I’m going to get away. I’m not yours, you sick fuck. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not._

_“You are ours, and you will say it, or this goes on until the fucking sun comes up,” Thomas threatens, one hand planted firmly on Stiles’ back, claws sinking in through the blistered, seared skin, helping Alec’s hold him down, the other hand unbuckling his belt._

_Stiles tries to move away but there’s no point.  He’s gasping for air, every move is agony, and they’re so, so much stronger than he can ever hope to be.  He’s powerless beneath them as Thomas shoves in, ripping and tearing and bringing on a new round of shrieks that have both wolves chuckling triumphantly._

_“You are ours,” Thomas insists as he thrusts._

_“No.”_

_“You. Are. Ours.”_

_“No.”_

_“You! Are! Ours!”_

_“No!”_

_Over and over and over again Thomas asserts their possession of him, and over and over Stiles refuses to accept it.  No matter what they do, he’s not letting them win. He won’t._

_“Well, looks like I’m not getting through to you.  Maybe Alec can help you see reason?”_

_“I’ll give it my best shot,” Alec answers with a grin as he switches places with Thomas._

_I won’t listen to you. I won’t. I’m not yours.  I’ll find a way to get away. I’m not yours. I’m not._

          

*******************************************************

 

           

Isaac pulls back from the kiss, unsure why Stiles has suddenly abandoned his usual enthusiasm for detached pliability.  When he gets a good look at the confused alarm in Stiles’ face, it’s all Isaac can do not to be sick. 

            “Derek, stop,” Isaac says, moving quickly to back away.  “He’s regressing. Stop.”

            “Stiles?” Derek asks, backing off immediately.

            “No, Alpha. Please. I want to be useful. I can be good,” Stiles whines, spreading his legs a little wider to try and show his eagerness.  Isaac can’t help hearing the words from weeks ago: _trying desperately to please them so I wouldn’t get beaten or shredded._

Derek’s frozen, eyes wide in panic.  Isaac’s stomach churns, and he hopes fervently he can control the nausea and not need to bolt from the room.

            “Alpha, _please._ I’m sorry. I—”

            “No,” Derek says, finally finding his voice. “No, Stiles—beta—beta, it’s—it’s okay.”

            “I want to be useful,” he pleads in a terrified whisper as Derek takes a step back toward the bed.

            “I know,” Derek says. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—I changed my mind. That’s all. This isn’t your fault. You won’t be punished.  I just don’t want to do this now.  I’ll have you—I’ll have you do something else, okay?”

            “Yes, Alpha, anything.”

            “Thank—thank you. I—uh—just—go get cleaned up, okay? Take a shower.”

            “I’ll show you,” Isaac offers, finding his voice as well. “Come on.”

 

*************************************************************************************************

 

            He’s confused, God he’s so confused.

            _Why can’t I remember? Why did the Alpha stop?  What did I do wrong? Why did he stop? How do I fix this?_

“This—uh—this happens sometimes,” the other beta says. “Your memories come and go, so it’s okay if you’re confused.”

            He says nothing, unwilling to admit how little he knows.

            “My name’s Isaac, okay? We call you Stiles.”

            _You call me what you dare. The Alpha called me beta. I’m a beta. I don’t have a name; I have a place.  What kind of presumptuous wolf do you think I am? I know my place._

“So, uh, there are towels under the sink,” the beta who calls himself Isaac informs.  “When you’re done, just come back to the bedroom and Derek—that’s the Alpha, his name is Derek—will have some clothes for you.”

            Now he knows the other beta is lying.  Telling him to call an Alpha by name? He’d never be stupid enough to believe that.  He’s already done something to derail the Alpha’s plan for the evening.  He’s not going to do anything to build up more wrath.

            “So, yeah, I’ll just—leave you to it then,” the beta says, walking back out and shutting the door behind him.

            As he moves toward the shower he catches a glimpse of black in the mirror, turning he can see the large triskele tattooed on his back, a symbol identical to the Alpha’s and other beta’s.

            _He marked me?_

He can’t help smile at the realization.

            _I’m claimed. I’m kept. He marked me._

He’s reaching for the shower faucet when the glint of silver on his finger draws his attention.  The third finger of his left hand. Humans use it to show commitment; does the Alpha use it to denote preference? He hardly dares hope the assumption is right.

            _Marked and preferred? Could I be that lucky?_

If he is, it’s all the more reason to make up for the pleasure the Alpha didn’t take earlier, all the more reason to be especially useful with whatever task he asks next. He has to keep this, has to keep this place.  He wishes the memories would come back so he knew better what to do, but no matter how he searches his mind there’s nothing—blank knowledge but no experiences.

            _It’s okay. The training will be enough. I know how to be good; that’s what’s most important.  I just have to be good._

 

************************************************************************************ 

 

Isaac walks slowly back down the hall, trying like hell to be calm because he knows Derek’s got to be freaking out.  Derek’s pulling on clothes when Isaac reenters the bedroom; neither of them speak for a while.  Isaac quietly dons his own pajamas as Derek lays some out for Stiles.  Derek’s eyes meet Isaac’s for a moment, worried and guilty.

            “I should’ve known better,” Derek laments quietly.

            “This is not your fault. Stiles asked for it.  It just—we moved too fast.  We’ll get him back and then we’ll take it slow. It’ll be okay.”

            “He was going to let us fuck him, just lay there and let—” Derek chokes off the sentence.  “What if you hadn’t noticed? What if I’d—”

            “You wouldn’t have,” Isaac assures, wrapping Derek tight in his arms, wishing he could leech the tension like the leech pain. “The only reason you didn’t see it is because I was blocking you.  You know him, Derek.  You’d have noticed; you would’ve seen. You would’ve stopped.  You’re never going to take advantage of him.”

            “I should’ve known better,” he murmurs miserably.

            “It’s not your fault. It’s gonna be okay.”

            The shower cuts off, and Derek pulls away from Isaac’s embrace. Derek closes his eyes, taking a couple deep breaths as he collects himself and readies to be the content, satisfied Alpha Stiles needs to see.  It breaks Isaac’s heart to watch Derek steel himself like this, but Isaac knows he’ll do the same thing once Stiles walks back in.  It’s all they can do when Stiles regresses, just hunker down behind the masks of the roles Stiles’ expects and wait for him to come back to them.

 

***********************************************************************************************************

 

            It’s been three days since his memory reset.

            Derek says that it’s okay he hasn’t gotten the old memories back yet, but Stiles can tell he’s worried.  Isaac is worried too; he’s watching the Alpha like he knows all the signs of distress, and Stiles can’t help envy it. 

He hates the way Isaac knows just what to do to ease tension from the Alpha.  Hates that Isaac knows when it’s all right to reach out and touch the Alpha.  Hates watching how easily Derek touches Isaac, the way he smiles when he does. He hates most that Derek never _, ever_ lays a single finger on Stiles that way—not only does he not touch him, he _avoids_ touching Stiles. 

Stiles tries not to hate Isaac for it.  Isaac can’t help the Alpha’s preferences.  Isaac explains things and tries to help Stiles.  Stiles still can’t stop the worry that builds in him when he sees Isaac please the Alpha without having to be told what to do; Stiles knows he doesn’t have enough memories to be as good and useful.

  _But I could be better and more useful if you’ll tell me more to do. I could be more like Isaac if you’ll teach me.  Why won’t you just help me learn it again?_

Derek hasn’t used Isaac or Stiles for any kind of sexual release in the past three days.  The room upstairs smells like the three of them, but Derek hasn’t entered it since the night Stiles regressed.  He hasn’t taken Isaac or Stiles into the room downstairs he claims is his own.  Stiles knows Derek has needs, both the human side of him and the wolf.  He can’t understand why he would deny them this long, except that they keep saying he doesn’t want Stiles scared or hurt.

_I was afraid the other night.  I tensed when the memories reset.  They could tell I was confused and scared. Derek didn’t like it.  Isaac says he’s not going to use me for sex while I’m like this.  He tells me not to worry about it._

_But I don’t worry about it.  He wasn’t hurting me; I was just confused, that’s all.  It wasn’t bad. Derek’s so good with everything else, so careful when he touches Isaac.  I bet it wouldn’t be so bad.  I could definitely take it.  I could be useful that way.  I wouldn’t be afraid._

_Can I tell Derek that?_

Isaac talks to Derek without worrying. Isaac initiates contact.  Derek never punishes for anything; he’ll just tell Stiles what to change about how he behaves.   Maybe it’s worth the risk to try being more like Isaac.  Maybe he should try.

_What the best way? What do I say? What do I do?_

****************************************************************************************************

 

            It’s been a long few days even though they’ve gone well. This is the longest Stiles has ever regressed.  They can’t be sure if it has something to do with the trigger or if it’s just the luck of the draw. There’s no way to gauge how soon he may come out of it.  All they can do is keep making lists of small tasks and counting their blessings that he stays generally relaxed and okay. 

But something’s been on his mind all afternoon, and Isaac can’t figure out what.

            “Stiles, are you okay?” Isaac wonders.

            “Yes, Isaac,” he answers readily, continuing to wash the bowl in his hands.

            “Are you confused about something?”

            “No, Isaac.”

            “You sure?”

            “Yes, Isaac.”

            “Okay, well, you—you can tell me or Derek if something’s bothering you.  You know that, right?”

            “Yes, Isaac.”

            _But do you really know it? Because you aren’t talking. You’re not asking questions. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to us._

Derek and Isaac have been quietly arguing for a day or two about how much to talk to Stiles and try to make him understand. Derek’s starting to panic now that his has become the worst regression—time-wise at least—and he wants to pull out the scrapbook Lydia made weeks ago.   It’s only a matter of time before he starts arguing to try memories, and Isaac’s still not convinced that wouldn’t just make it worse.  If his mind does this because it needs a rest, forcing it to accept new memories could just tax it more. 

They’re not sure that’s why he regresses though, and it’s another reminder of how frustratingly helpless they are in the face of Stiles’ mental trauma.  It’s all guesswork and prayers and waiting because they can’t fix it; Isaac can’t focus too long on the fact that they’ll never be able to fix it; the idea is utterly emotionally exhausting.  He’d give anything if this were something their powers could heal.  Morrell says it might be—that the physical side of Stiles’ seizures could heal in the coming years—but it’s really just a glimmer of hope she threw out as they grasped at straws, not a certainty.

            “Are _you_ okay, Isaac?” Stiles wonders after a few moments of silence.

            “Huh?”

            “Are you—”

            “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine; just thinking about something.”

            “Oh.”

 

********************************************************************

 

            It’s the afternoon of day five, and Derek feels like he’s coming apart at the seams.  Stiles isn’t back, hasn’t shown any signs of coming back, and there’s no way to know if attempts to share memories or explain his life would help or just cause more stress.  Stiles is in the kitchen, content enough Derek supposes since he’s humming along to the radio like usual, but all Derek can think is that Stiles, the _real_ Stiles, would be singing loudly and off-key, dancing a little as he cooks and yelling through the house for Derek and Isaac to get their asses in there and start cleaning up if they expected any of the bounty of his baking.

            Derek shuts his eyes against the thought, willing himself to keep the fear and frustration from bubbling to the surface.  It’s getting harder and harder to control, even with taking time for a run every day.  Isaac comes into the den, recognizing Derek’s shaky control immediately and taking his hand.

            “What if we don’t get him back?” Derek asks almost inaudibly.

            “We will,” Isaac swears, but it’s a promise he can’t keep, no matter how much he may want it to be true.  “Hey,” Isaac pushes, “Don’t give up on him yet.  It’s gonna be okay.”

            “I’m not giving up. I just—”

            _I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up without going out of my mind. We need him back. I need him to come back._

“It’s going to be okay,” Isaac promises again, leaning in until his forehead is pressed against Derek’s and then closing the small distance between their lips for one of the few stolen kisses they can manage when Stiles is regressed.

Stiles comes around the corner, and Derek and Isaac part hastily.

            “I’m sorry, I—”

            “It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek assures.

 _We should have fucking known better_   _._

“Do you need something?”

            “I just—I wasn’t sure if you like peanut butter?”

            “Isaac’s not a big fan of peanut butter.”

“I’ll choose something else.”

“What’re  you making?”

            “More cookies, Derek. If that’s okay? It was on the list and we’re almost out from the last time I made them.”

            “That’s awesome, Stiles. How about snickerdoodles?”

            “Yes, I know how to make those.”

            “Those would be perfect.”

            “Yes, Derek.”  


 

*******************************************************************

 

            Stiles pauses before he gets in the shower, examining himself in the mirror.  There’re a few blemishes, moles that don’t disappear like scars with the bite; nothing too horrible though, he doesn’t think.  He’s not as fit as Isaac, but he’s decently in shape, lithe but still muscular.  His hair’s a bit shorter, much darker; it’s one of the bigger differences. 

            _But none of it should make me unusable.  He must like something, surely. I’m marked. I have a ring_ _. I woke up in his bed.  I’m usable. He keeps me._

_But for how long?_

_I know I could do this for him before.  Why won’t he let me now?_

Stiles can only assume that Isaac’s meant to fill that place now.  It’s the Alpha’s prerogative to change his mind as he pleases.  He can’t control the Alpha’s thoughts.

            It still makes Stiles feel like he’s failing somehow.

 

***************************************************************

 

“Stiles?” Isaac says quietly as Stiles gets out of bed.  “You okay?”

“I’m thirsty,” Stiles answers. “I can go downstairs, can’t I? To get water? I’ll come right back.”

“Yeah, Stiles, of course. You can go wherever you want. You can do whatever you want. It’s allowed.”

“Okay.”

He’s halfway to the kitchen when a groan stops him. He turns, treading lightly to move down the hall instead and follow the sound.  Derek’s pulse leaves no doubt he’s still asleep, and it would seem he’s dreaming.  He groans again and Stiles knows the sound, knows the desires behind it.

            _I can do that, Derek.  I can do anything you want. I’m glad to if you want me._

He thinks of going for Isaac, telling him to come see to the Alpha’s need, but he pauses, selfish.

            _Maybe if I show him I see what he wants.  Maybe if he sees how willing I am. Maybe then he’ll treat me more like he treats Isaac._

His hand trembles slightly as it hovers over the door.  It’s the Alpha’s room; should he? Can he? Does he dare go in without permission?  But Derek groans even more loudly, and Stiles wills himself to turn the handle, trusting that even if this is wrong Derek will simply send him for Isaac instead.  Derek’s been patient as Stiles tries to learn.  He understands even when Stiles messes up and shows weakness that Stiles is still trying.  He doesn’t seem to ever get angry.  He’s so, _so_ unbelievably good to Stiles, and Stiles wants Derek to have everything he could want or need from his betas.

            He slowly undresses, leaving his clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed.  He thinks for a moment of kneeling and calling Derek’s name to wake him and get instructions.  But Derek never seems to want him to kneel.  And Isaac doesn’t wait for instructions.

_Maybe…Maybe…_

Isaac kissed Derek, and Derek wasn’t angry. He pulled away quickly, but he wasn’t angry.

            _Maybe I can just kiss him too. Maybe if I do he’ll know I’m not confused or afraid.  He’ll know I want to be useful like this.  He’ll see I can be even better than he thinks._

He’s shaking just a bit as he leans down slowly.  Licks his lips nervously before using every ounce of gumption in him to propel forward the last few inches and make contact.  A thrill of delight runs through him when Derek kisses back.

            _I did something right. Something right that he wanted without having to be told. Like Isaac does.  I’m learning the Alpha again. I’m getting better. I can do this for him. He’ll let me do this for him._

Derek’s hand comes up to cradle the back of Stiles’ head, and Stiles shivers at the gentle touch.  _This_ is how Derek touches Isaac. _This_ is the kind of caress Stiles has been wondering about. _This_ is what makes Stiles believe being claimed by Derek won’t be bad.  He reaches down to stroke Derek, and Derek arches up into the touch with a moan.

            “Fuck, Stiles,” he gasps.

            Stiles can’t stop the pleased sound that escapes him at the Alpha’s encouraging response, but Derek swallows the noise as he kisses Stiles even more deeply, tongue sweeping into Stiles’ mouth.  The delicious feel of it has Stiles shuddering in delighted anticipation; he _wants_ this to keep going.  The only worry in his mind is that he’s not sure what Derek likes best.  He’s not sure which things will ensure Derek’s too pleased with him to stop and call for Isaac.

            _Oh please, oh please, just let me be good enough._

“You’re back?” Derek mumbles sleepily.

            He knows what Derek’s asking.  Derek wants to know if he has the right memories.  Stiles should be truthful; he should admit he doesn’t have enough memories to be at his best.  He can’t lie to the Alpha, but he can choose his words carefully.

            “I’m here,” he answers.

            He doesn’t have much time to worry if Derek can sense the half-truth of an answer because Derek surges up for another kiss, hands running down Stiles’ back as he pulls him in closer.  He reaches into Derek’s boxers, letting Derek’s enthusiasm overshadow Stiles’ trepidation.  He prays he can read Derek well enough to satisfy him even without memories of Derek’s preferences. He’s terrified the moment will shatter, that Derek will realize this isn’t the beta he wants in his bed.  Stiles knows he’d rather have Isaac, only wants Stiles if he has the memories so he doesn’t need to be taught.  Stiles should stop, but he really, _truly_ believes he can be better than Derek thinks.

            _Let me show you how good I can be.  Let me show you what I can do even without the memories.  I can make you happy, Derek. I want to make you happy._

Derek’s half hard under Stiles’ touch, and Stiles wants to show him how he can use his mouth to get Derek fully ready to claim Stiles.  The next time Derek breaks away, forehead resting on Stiles’ as he pants and tries to catch his breath, Stiles slides away from him slowly, reaching to free Derek’s cock from his boxers, and kissing a reverent trail down Derek’s abdomen.

            “Stiles, are you sure?” Derek wonders.

            _Sure? Sure I can do this well? Sure I want to? Sure I should? What d’you want me to be sure of?_

“Yes, Derek, of course,” Stiles responds eagerly because whatever the question means, he’s damn sure he wants whatever Derek desires from him.

            In the next instant, Derek’s eyes snap open.  He flails away, and his knee catches Stiles in the chin as Derek scrambles from the bed.  Stiles’ head snaps back at the impact and he loses his balance, falling from the small bed to the floor as Derek rises to his feet on the other side.  The metallic taste of  blood taints Stiles’ mouth though his bitten tongue is already healing.

            “You don’t have memories!”

            The accusing tone in the voice has Stiles cowering, pain of the fall ignored as shame that floods through him. He trembles as he realizes how completely he’s displeased his Alpha.

“I’m sorry, Derek,” he answers miserably, and he doesn’t dare rise from his place on the floor.

“Stiles, what the fuck? Wh—why would you do that? Why would you do that I—Stiles, I told you I didn’t want that! I told I would _never_ hurt you. I—I—what the hell, Stiles?”         

 Derek’s the least in control Stiles has ever seen him, shaking as he tries to rein himself in. He looks angry and repulsed. 

_I’m so sorry, Derek. So sorry. I thought I was going to help._

“I should’ve gotten Isaac,” he continues quickly, “but I thought I could—”

            “This is not about you getting Isaac! I don’t want—”

            “Derek, what the fuck is going on?” Isaac demands, from the doorway, flicking on the lights. 

            Stiles squints against the sudden light, and he _detests_ Isaac for the relief in Derek’s face when the Alpha sees him.  Isaac’s eyes are on Stiles though, confused and worried.

            “Stiles?” Isaac says.  “You told me you were coming for water. What’re you doing? What happened?”

            “I thought—I heard Derek when I came down the stairs and I thought I could help. I thought he could use me and—”

            “Stiles, I do not want to fuck you.”

            “Yes, Derek.”

            _I know. I should’ve known. I should have just gotten Isaac. What was I thinking? Stupid. I was so stupid. How could I be so stupid? So selfish?_

“Stiles, are you hurt?” Isaac asks.

            “No,” he replies, loathing the pathetic, wounded sound still in his voice.

            _I should be grateful. I should thank him for keeping me even when he doesn’t want me anymore.  I should be grateful for what I’ve been given to do.  It’s not my place to presume I deserve to be wanted this way.  Stupid. So stupid._

            “Fuck, I—I knocked you off the bed, didn’t I?” Derek asks, his face even more pained. “I—I didn’t mean to do that. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

            “I’m okay, Derek.”

“You’re crying, Stiles,” Isaac counters, “and I can smell the blood on you.”

_Shut up. I know I’m weak. I know. He can see it. You don’t have to point it out.  Go away.  You’re making this worse._

“It’ll stop soon.”

Derek’s backing toward the door, away from Stiles and his tears like Derek can’t stomach the pitiful sight before him.  Panic grips at Stiles like a vice.  

_I fucked everything up worse. Oh God, I made it worse._

“No, Derek, please don’t go, _please_ ,” Stiles entreats. “Even if you don’t want to fuck me, if you would let me I could still—”

“Stop,” Derek barks sharply before Stiles can remind of all the ways he can make use of his body.

“ _Derek_ ,” Isaac scolds. 

“I—I—can’t—I—he—” Derek’s hands are balled into fists, he shuts his eyes as he draws in a shaky breath before continuing, “I can’t be here right now. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

“Derek, please!” Stiles begs, scampering to follow him.  “I’m sorry, so sorry. I know I fucked up. I won’t touch you again; I promise! I—”

“Stop it, Stiles! That’s not the problem!” Derek orders. 

His arms fly up to emphasize his point as he rounds to face Stiles. The back of his hand connects hard with Stiles face, and Stiles staggers back, on his knees in the next instant, waiting for the next blow.

“Thank you, Derek,” he says readily.

_Beat me if it makes you stay, just please don’t go._

“Teach me to be better; _please_.”

_Teach me to be good like Isaac._

Derek swings again with a roar of fury, but his fist crashes through the wall, not into Stiles.

“You’re right, Derek. You need to go,” Isaac says.

_Why would you tell him that?  Why would you send him away? He needs to stay. I need him to tell me how to fix this._

“No, Derek, please,” Stiles sobs, he doesn’t dare rise after being struck down again, but he crawls toward Derek, resisting the urge to latch desperately to the Alpha’s legs.  “I’m sorry; I’m so sorry. I can learn to be good again. I can learn what to do. I can. I _promise_ I can. _Please_!”

 “I’ll come back, Stiles,” Derek swears before he disappears down the hall.  “It’ll be okay.”

“Derek, please,” Stiles says again, voice barely a whisper now as the crushing sense of failure steals the wind from his lungs.

_Not even good enough to be beaten and taught.  So pathetic and revolting he can’t even stand to be in the room with you.  I’ve made it all worse, so much worse; He’ll take the ring back.  He’ll send me out of the house and bring in one of the other betas._

“Stiles, it’s all right,” Isaac promises, crouching in front of Stiles and taking his hand. 

_Not you. I wanted Derek to touch me. I want Derek to want to touch me. I want to be so useful he keeps me close like he keeps you._

He doesn’t pull away though because the contact is still grounding even if he resents it.

“He just needs a run; it happens sometimes. You know that.  He’ll come back like he always does. I promise.”

“But he still won’t want me.”

“Stiles, _of course_ , he wants you,” Isaac counters earnestly.  “He’s not going to send you away, not ever.  You’re part of this pack.  Derek wants you, just not—not—”

“Not like he wants you,” Stiles finishes dejectedly.

            Isaac gapes at him a moment or two before asking, “Stiles, are you _jealous_?”  

             “How could I not be?” he retorts angrily.

His fury burns hotter with the incredulity in Isaac’s voice.

_Of course I’m jealous! What do you think? How would you feel if it were you? If you were the one he avoided, the one who could do nothing but watch as the Alpha’s favor transferred so completely and you couldn’t figure out why or how to gain the favor back?_

“I see how he looks at you—touches you.  He _wants_ you there.  When you walk in the room, he gets happier.  You’re useful just by _existing._ It’s not _fair!_  It’s not my fault you know more than me. I want to be that good for him! I’m trying to be! I could do everything if I could just get the memories back. I could be better at—”

“It’s not about the memories!”

“Yes, it is! It’s _all_ about the memories!  That’s what’s messing it up.  He wanted me before. He must have.  He was going to claim  _me_ , not  _you_ that night! I just fucked it up because my brain reset but—but I didn’t mean for it to. I couldn’t help it. I don’t know why it did, but I don’t mind not having the memories.  I could learn it all again; I’m a quick learner.  Why do the memories matter so much? Why can’t he just teach me again so I can—”

“Shhh, Stiles, stop, it’s okay,” Isaac promises, hand coming up to Stiles’ face as he brushes at tears with his thumb.

“No, it’s not!” Stiles insists, pushing Isaac’s hand away in frustration.  “It’s not, and—”

“Stiles, I think—I think I just need to explain everything differently.  Let me try and explain _why_ the memories matter so much, okay?”

He nods acquiescence because if he understands _why_ they matter maybe he can better assure Derek they _don’t._  

 

**********************************************************

 

            _God we are such idiots,_ Isaac laments as he tries to soothe Stiles, _but how the fuck do I explain this to him? How much can he even understand?_

“You know Derek says you’ve been with us a long time?” Isaac begins.     

            “Yes.”

            “We were all friends before you were pack,” Isaac says.  “Like humans, you know how that works? Objectively at least, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “There was a rival pack. They kidnapped you, and they’re the ones who gave you the training; it’s not something Derek wanted you to have.”

            “But I could re-learn training for Derek. I could—”

            “Derek doesn’t want you trained,” Isaac says, “he just wants family, and I know that’s something you don’t really understand.  It’s more of a human idea, but we’re much, much more equal, Stiles.  You don’t owe Derek anything.”

            Stiles recoils from Isaac as though he’s a poisonous snake, and an anger rises in his eyes as though he longs to strike Isaac for the words.

“I owe Derek _everything!_ He’s my Alpha; he—”

“He’s not just your Alpha, Stiles.”

“What?”

“He’s your—he _loves_ you. You know that?”

“Yes, I know Derek loves his pack; that’s why—”

“No, not as part of the pack,” Isaac corrects, “he loves _you_ ,Stiles, you specifically.”

“No, he doesn’t; he doesn’t want me anymore; he just wants _you_ and—”

“I’m not talking about being useful for sex. I’m talking about you, as a person, just existing.  You know how angry you were earlier, saying I was useful just by existing? You are too.”

“But I’m not. I make him sad. He—”

“He’s only sad because you can’t remember how much he loves you—how much we both do.”

“But I do know that. Derek’s _always_ good to me. He’s always good and patient and generous.  He never punishes, hardly yells, never hits unless—”

“No,” Isaac corrects firmly. “There’s not an unless to the hitting.  He wasn’t trying to punish you tonight. He knocked you off the bed because he was startled.  He didn’t realize you were so close when he turned.  Derek will never hit you on purpose, not ever.  He will _never_ hurt you.”

“I know that.  I know he’s good. That’s why I want him to want me. That’s why I want to be better!”

“Right,” Isaac agrees.  “And it’s good that you see that he’s good, but he—it’s—it’s different when you have your memories.  You see it better then.  You understand that he will always be that way, even if you never did anything useful again.  You understand that you don’t owe him anything, and you’re his equal.”

            “No! No, I’m a beta. I’m a _good_ beta. I know my place and Derek is good and I—”

            “See this?” Isaac asks, wiggling his ring finger.

            “Yes.”

            “And you have one.”

            “Yes.”

            “And Derek.”

            “Yes.”

            “You haven’t asked about it.”

            “I—I thought it just meant that we’re preferred? That we stay here with Derek instead of leaving like the other betas—”

            “We are preferred,” Isaac says, “but it’s not just Derek’s claim on us.  It’s our claim on Derek.”

            “No, no we can’t—we have no right to—anything from Derek is _given_. It’s _given._ It’s a _privilege._ We can’t _claim_ or _take_ or _demand_ or—”

            “We can,” Isaac counters, “because this pack is a family and we are equals to Derek.  He belongs to us just as much as we belong to him.”

            “No, he can’t; he shouldn’t. He’s—he’s—”

            “I know this goes against everything in your mind. I know the training tells you I’m wrong, but I’m not. I promise you. It is so, so very different here, and it takes your memories for you to really understand how different. That’s why they’re so important.  Until you have the memories back, you don’t fully understand how the pack works; you function like the captive the bad pack who kidnapped you taught you to be, not like the equal you are.  Derek doesn’t want to take advantage of the fact that you think you’re subordinate. He wants you to feel like you have a place here, and of course you’ll always help the pack.  You’re not earning it though. The place is yours, and he loves you very much and wants you very much and that is never _ever_ going to change.”

 

******************************************************

 

            Isaac’s waiting on the back steps as Derek comes back into the yard.

            “Why aren’t you with him?” Derek asks, as if he has any right to criticize Isaac for leaving Stiles alone when Derek’s been gone for over an hour trying to get the anger to subside only to have the guilt persist in crippling waves.

            “He doesn’t want me to touch him,” Isaac replies.  “He wants you.”

            “Don’t say it like that—don’t—”

            “We fucked this one up,” Isaac says miserably.  “He’s been drowning in jealousy for days and we didn’t realize it.”

            “Drowning in _jealousy_?”

            “He woke up in bed with us.  He _knew_ sex was something he did before.  Then when you never touched him, but you still touched me, he thought it was because you didn’t want him anymore.  That’s what this was about.  He was trying to prove himself.”

            “Yeah, and he was doing a damn good job for a while because I was too much of an idiot to stop him.”

            “Hey, this isn’t your fault any more than it’s his; you stopped it as soon as you realized it. We’re all just doing the best we can here.”

            “Yeah, well, it’s not good enough.”

            “Of course it’s not good enough,” Isaac retorts angrily.  “It’s never good enough, Derek; you just have to roll with the punches as well as you can.  You had your freak out; you went on your run; now you’ll talk to him, and we’ll try to get back on track and keep waiting.”

            Isaac’s control is wearing thin.  He could use a break as much as Derek, but he won’t take it, not now.  He’ll wait til the other two are okay before he takes care of himself.   He shouldn’t have to function that way, but Derek’s forever grateful that Isaac has the strength to be the selfless man Derek can’t be.   

            “C’mere,” Derek says, pulling Isaac in close, letting him relax into Derek for just a moment, just a brief reprieve before they go back in to tackle the aftermath of this clusterfuck.  “I’m sorry I—”

            “Don’t,” Isaac interrupts.  “It’s okay just—just come help me.”

            He turns to go back in and face Stiles, and Derek follows dutifully.

            _Please God just don’t let me make this worse._

 

******************************************************

 

            Isaac’s grateful beyond words when Derek takes the lead as they go in the house.  He’s not sure if it’s because Derek can sense that Isaac’s hitting the end of his rope or not, but he hopes it means Derek has enough presence of mind to keep his shit together.  He’s trying to be patient with both of them—Derek’s mentally punishing himself more than enough, and Stiles can’t help his complete and utter confusion—but he’s had about all he can take these past few days and the past few hours are about to send it all over the top. 

“Stiles, I didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.  I just thought it might make you uncomfortable or afraid if I touched you. I’m sorry I didn’t see that it was bothering you.”

            “It’s my fault; you told me to talk and ask questions and I—”

            “Hey, it is _definitely_ not your fault,” Derek promises. 

            _Why are so many of our conversations, regressed or not, about making sure no one feels guilty? The Alphas did this. It’s their fucking fault, but we’re all always apologizing. It’s fucking ridiculous._

“Is it—is it okay if I sit with you?” Derek wonders.

            “Of course, Derek.”

            “Look, I know it’s all very, very confusing, and I’m so sorry for that.  But the thing I want the most if for you to feel happy and safe, okay? So the best thing you can do for me—the best thing to be useful—is to ask as many questions as it takes and do whatever it takes for you to feel happy and safe.  If that means you want to be touched like Isaac, you can say that, okay? And then I’ll know, and we can make sure you understand enough to move forward with it.  Like—like now I know you want what you see with me and Isaac.  Is that—is that right? You want that?”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay, so now I know that being touched makes you happy, not uncomfortable, and I can change the way I treat you, you see? But it’s also—it’s also really, _really_ important to me that you understand we are complete equals when it comes to touch,” Derek says.  “You can start it the way I can start it.  You can end it whenever you want to just like I can end it whenever I want to.  Ending it doesn’t mean stopping forever, it just means you may not want to be touched right then, or you’re just uncomfortable or—or whatever it means, but you have to know you can always pull away or tell me ‘no’, all right? I’m trusting you to be honest about it because if I find out you’re letting things happen just because I’m the Alpha and not because _you_ want then, it’s going to hurt me, okay?”

            Stiles nods, and Isaac can practically see the gears whirring in his mind as he tries to comprehend what he’s been told.

            “I’m sorry we didn’t explain better before now,” Derek says, “but usually your memories are back in a day or two.  You asked us to stop trying to explain everything and just wait it out, but this time—it’s the longest your memories have stayed blocked.”

            “Does it mean—does it mean the memories aren’t coming back?”

It’s the question Isaac’s been asking for days now, and hearing it in Stiles’ frightened voice makes Isaac feel like he’s been gutted.

            “I don’t know,” Derek answers honestly.

            “If they don’t come back soon, what will you do?”

            _He’ll get his shit together better and figure out how to balance your conditioning with teaching you to be more like your own self.  He’ll have to step up his game since you don’t seem to like or trust me as much this time around._

            “We’ll keep working on it; we’ll try to explain things the best we can, and you’ll hopefully understand everything better over time,” Derek says, and some of Isaac’s frustration wanes as he’s reminded Derek’s got the same endgame in mind as Isaac; they both just want Stiles to be okay.

            “I’ll try to understand it all,” Stiles promises.  “I—”

            “I know you will, and we’ll help you,” Derek reassures, smiling at Stiles and glancing over to Isaac. 

            “Thank you, Derek.”

            “I’m sorry you’ve been feeling left out.”

            “It’s okay.”

            “It’s not,” Derek counters.  “I love you just as much as Isaac, but I didn’t know how to explain that to you.  I didn’t realize I needed to.  We’re all equal though, okay? All three of us.  I know that’s hard for you to understand, but you need to know it.”

            “I know now. Thank you, Derek.”

            “You’re more than welcome, Stiles. Thank _you_ for always thinking of me first; it’s very kind of you.”

            “You’re good to me, Derek. I want you to be happy.”

            “I feel the same way about you, Stiles.  So we’ll—we’ll try to help each other okay? We’ll be happy together?”

            “Yes,” Stiles agrees with a smile. 

            “Good.”

            Derek stands slowly, trying to make sure the movement doesn’t startle Stiles.  He offers his hand to help Stiles up.  Stiles hesitates just a moment before taking it, smiling as Derek’s fingers lace through his once they’re standing.

            “There’s still a couple of hours before the sun comes up.  We should all get some rest.”

            “Derek, do you—do you always sleep downstairs?”

            “No.”

            “The room upstairs smells like you.  Do you—do you sleep there sometimes?”

            “Yes.”

            “Why haven’t you slept there since the night I reset?”

            “I didn’t want you to worry that you’d be used for sex. I—”

            “I’m not now. I understand better.”

            “I’m glad.”

            “So if—if you—if you preferred sleeping up there.  If it makes you happier, then—then—it would—I wouldn’t—it wouldn’t make me worried.”

            Derek looks uncertainly to Isaac.

            “You want Derek to sleep upstairs with us?” Isaac asks to clarify, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

            “I want Derek to sleep wherever he’s happier.”

            “Which would make _you_ happier, Stiles?” Derek wonders.

            “Either is good, Derek.”

            “But if you _had_ to choose.”

            Stiles looks anxiously from Derek to Isaac, as though the answer to the question is a matter of life or death.

            “There’s no wrong answer,” Derek swears. “I just want you to be honest.”

            “I—I—I would choose for you to stay with us.”

            “Okay,” Derek answers with a small smile. 

            “Okay?”

            “Yeah.”

            _One step at a time._

Isaac hopes this whole debacle will look easier to handle in the morning, but he kind of doubts it.

 

 

            Stiles’ hand has been moving under the covers toward Derek’s in painfully slow increments for the last five minutes.  Derek’s sure to smile when Stiles finally makes contact, rubbing his thumb on the back of Stiles’ hand.  Even in the dim light, when Derek turns to look at Stiles—he’s sandwiched between Isaac and Stiles tonight—Stiles is beaming back at him, dropping his gaze down as he blushes.  Derek wants so badly to lean over and kiss his temple, or maybe the blushing cheeks, and pull Stiles in close, but he’s not initiating anything that drastic.  He can’t; he won’t. He’s going to let Stiles set the pace of the contact or he’s always going to wonder if Stiles is just going along with it to be good.

 

***********************************************

 

            Derek stays still when he wakes, enjoying the relaxed look of Stiles’ face and the way his lips are turned up just a little as though he’s dreaming of something good. Stiles stirs but doesn’t fully wake, scooting in closer to Derek and Derek gives in then, wrapping his arm around Stiles and holding him close.  Stiles’ eyes flutter open for a moment, and he smiles at Derek happily before his eyes close again and he drifts back to sleep. 

            _Come back to us, Stiles. Please come back soon._

The worry that Stiles might not be surfacing again is building to an unbearable ache in Derek’s chest.  He misses Stiles more than he knows how to say, and having this version of him here, taunting Derek that the man they love is so close and still so unreachable, is nothing short of torture.  He can see the toll of it in Isaac too. A glance to his left only confirms it; Isaac’s tense and his face seems troubled even in sleep.  Derek can’t stand how hard he leans on Isaac while Stiles is gone.  He knows Isaac does it gladly enough, but it’s no fairer than it ever is.  Isaac forces himself to keep his shit together while Derek barely manages to stay sane. 

 

 

***********************************************************

           

            It’s been a week now, and Stiles understands a little better everyday that this pack is different from what his training insists he expect.  He’s slowly starting to convince himself that the generally tranquility is going to hold and—even if Derek gets angry sometimes and Stiles can’t figure out why, even if Isaac’s started to look sad when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking, even if Scott always looks like he wants to run in the other direction when Stiles is in the room, even if his human father looks like he’s going to cry every time he lays eyes on Stiles, even if Jackson just speaks in statements—apparently jokes?—that Stiles doesn’t grasp, and Lydia intimidates the hell out of him even though she’s just human—Stiles is starting to trust in this idea of pack.  It’s nice really, to let his mind wander and think about getting to keep all this.  He can keep pack dinners and choosing what he cooks and holding onto Derek or Isaac when he’s scared or unsure or just when he wants to.

            He wishes he could get the memories back for them.  It’s the only thing marring his interaction with the pack, however confusing it all might be.  He catches them all watching out of the corner of their eyes.  They all seem like they’re on edge, almost holding their breath as they wait for the memories to come back, but the memories don’t. 

 

*********************************************************

 

            “Derek?” Stiles asks, looking up from the most recent photo album he’s been given.

            “Yes, Stiles?”

            “Why—why don’t you give me memories?”

            It takes everything in Derek not to glare over at Isaac.  It’s day eight, and Derek is losing his fucking mind—they all are. It’s time to start trying something else, no matter how well Stiles has taken most of the attempts at explanations he still can’t fully grasp.

            “Because your seizures are caused by the damage in your mind from the ones who trained you; we’re not sure if tampering with your memories now might make the others stay blocked longer,” Isaac answers for Derek.

            “Oh.”

            “Do you _want_ me to give you memories, Stiles?” Derek asks.  “There’s no wrong answer.  I’m just wondering.”

            _Say yes. Please fucking say yes.  Isaac’s still going to flip but I at least have a leg to stand on in the argument if you say yes._

“Yes, please, Derek, if—if you wouldn’t mind then—”

            “Absolutely not,” Isaac interjects, glaring daggers at Derek across the room.  “It’s not worth risking it; we’re not sure what it will do. It could hurt you.”

            “Or it could help.  It’ll help him understand. He’s always said memories are easier than explanations.”

            “Yes, Derek,” Stiles agrees eagerly. “If you can—”

            “No, Stiles,” Isaac says firmly.  “Dammit, Derek, why would you offer that?” Isaac demands.  “We agreed you wouldn’t do that.”

            “We didn’t _agree_ ,” Derek retorts.  “We said ‘not yet’ and that was three days ago.”

            “You have to give it more time.”

            “It’s been eight days.  Stiles wants the memories; I’ll only give a few, to help him understand, and even if it adds to the time, it’ll make it easier all the same.”

            “What if it does more than add time? What if it gives him another seizure? What if—”

            “He _wants_ us to try, don’t you, Stiles?” Derek counters, glancing to Stiles for confirmation. 

            Stiles is still on the sofa, but he’s curled in on himself, head buried in his knees and hands over his ears.

            “Yes, Derek.”

            “Fuck,” Derek curses.

            “It’s okay, Stiles. Don’t be scared,” Isaac soothes. “We shouldn’t—we shouldn’t have had this conversation in front of you.”

            The statement makes Derek feel like they’re Stiles’ parents instead of his partners; it’s a feeling that’s come too often the past few days.  He always feels the weight of his responsibility to his pack, but the crushing pressure of protecting Stiles when he’s conditioned is so much more daunting.  Derek runs a tired hand down his face as he stares at the quivering form on the couch.

            _I don’t even fucking know anymore.  I want to give you memories because sitting around and waiting is killing me, but I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to mess anything up more. I just want you back, Stiles. I need you back. We need you back.  Please, please, please just come back._

“Stiles, I’m sorry,” Derek says. “That wasn’t a fair question to ask.”

            “I—I don’t mind if it hurts,” Stiles says quietly, eye flickering over to Isaac. “I don’t mind; I’ll heal quick.  I’ll understand better.”

            “Stiles, just—” Isaac chokes on the words, turning from both of them as he heads out the back door. 

            “Isaac, wait!” Derek calls.

            _I’m the one who runs._

He stares dumbly after Isaac a few moments more before looking back to Stiles.

            _Do I stay with you or follow him? Fuck!_

“Stiles, stay here, okay? I need to talk to Isaac, and then we’ll—we’ll decide what to do when we come back in but just—stay.”

            “Yes, Derek.”

           

*************************************

 

Isaac makes a beeline for the tire swing, intent on shredding it again; it worked well enough last time the anger got the better of him.  He remembers at the last moment that it’s daylight and he can’t shift out here.  He punches at the tree in frustration, and two fingers break on the third blow, but he doesn’t stop.  Somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that Derek’s calling his name, but the anger and fear and panic aren’t letting the words really come through.  When a hand grabs at him to pull him away from the tree, Isaac rounds on the interloper, swinging furiously at Derek’s face with an unintelligible roar.

            “Isaac!”

            “Goddammit, Derek, you can’t pull shit like that. You can’t fucking get us fighting in front of him! You can’t offer things that might hurt him and use your alpha shit to get him on your side and just spring shit like that without _talking_ to me.  You’re not the only one who’s fucking terrified! I know we’re grasping at straws! I know it’s been eight fucking days! I am scared shitless that we’re not getting him back after everything he’s been through and we’ve been through and all the plans we have and— _Goddamn you_!”

            He’s still trying to throw punches as Derek uses his superior strength to pull him in close.  When the anger finally recedes enough, he slumps, exhausted, into Derek’s shoulder, the tears of rage becoming tears of despair.

            “It’s okay, Isaac,” Derek murmurs.  “We’ll figure out what to do. You’re right. I was an asshole. I just—I can’t sit and wait. I want to _do_ something.”

            “You think it’s any easier for me?” Isaac replies.  “You think it’s any easier to sit there and watch him like this and wonder if we’re getting him back or not? To watch what it does to you and try to hide what it does to me? It fucking _sucks,_ Derek. For all of us.  I get where you’re coming from with the memory thing; I do, but you can’t blindside me with shit like that when I’m barely holding it together.”

            “I’m such a fucking idiot, Isaac. I’m sorry. I just—” he pulls away from Isaac just enough that he can look him in the face.  “You’re the strong one when he’s like this.  You’re a fucking _rock._ I guess I—I mean I know you’re freaked but I just assume you can take—”

            “Well don’t assume I can fucking take it.  You deal your way; I deal mine.  I can suck it up if you need to get out of the house, if you need to go talk to Deaton about it, whatever you need to do to keep your shit together—but you can’t lose your shit and panic into stupid plans you blindside me with.  You’re _my_ rock when he’s like this, you jackass.”

 

******************************************************

 

            Stiles stays where he was told, but that doesn’t stop him from listening.  The words make him _ache_ to set things right.  He doesn’t want Derek or Isaac this unhappy.  He doesn’t want them worried.  He doesn’t want them pining over whatever kind of person he is with the memories. He wants them to be happy; he wants to be happy with them.

            _And that happens if the memories come back._

_I want Derek to give me memories.  I’ll ask or beg or whatever I have to do to convince him._

It’s not a hard choice to make.  It seems like letting Derek give him things is the most drastic but hopefully more helpful next step.  Even if the memories don’t come back, they’ll give better reference.  They’ll show him the person he’s supposed to be for them and he can mimic it better until the block in his brain dissipates again. 

 

****************************************

 

The first memory Derek shares doesn’t trigger another seizure.  It doesn’t seem to hurt Stiles any more than before his seizures started.  It actually seems to help.

But it doesn’t bring him back.

Dozens of memories and two days later, the hope that this was the answer to expediting Stiles’ return is dying quickly, and the panic is back and more suffocating than ever.  Derek struggles to fall asleep with the ever-constant flurry of anxiety.

_What if I’m making it worse without realizing it? What if he doesn’t come back soon? How long before we accept that we’re starting back at square one? Can we even accept that we’re starting at square one? What about the rings? The wedding? The whole fucking future of this fucking complicated relationship? What the fuck do we do about any of it? How are we supposed to handle this?_

They’re questions he’s asked himself dozens of times now, but he still doesn’t have any answers.  He’s pulled from his miserable rumination as Stiles flails in his sleep

            “Dad! Dad, please! Dad, help me!” Stiles shrieks. 

He’s almost off the bed before Derek grabs him, but he gets tangled in the sheets as he thrashes wildly.

“Stiles! Stiles, wake up! You’re okay!” Derek swears, grabbing Stiles shoulders. “Wake up!”

Stiles looks wildly around the room, but the terror in his face doesn’t leave.

“No, no, no, not here. Not in here. Get me out. Get me out. Help me, please, Derek. Get me out! _Please!_ ”

The last word is a sob, and Derek shakes his shoulders harder. “Come on, Stiles, snap out of it! It’s just a bad dream.”

“No,” he wails, pushing at Derek.  “I am. I am. I’m awake. I’m me. Just—I can’t be in here, please, please. Not in here,” Stiles begs before all the words become unintelligible beneath the sobs.

Derek on his feet and headed for the door with Stiles in his arms the instant the words click. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Derek soothes.  “Where, Stiles? Out of the room? Out of the house? Where d’you want to be?”

“Porch,” Stiles gasps out between sobs. 

Derek plops on the back porch steps with him, but the minute they’re down Stiles is pushing away from him. Derek lets him go, watching helplessly as Stiles backs into the corner against the house. He’s curled into as small a ball as he can, sobbing as he mutters.  Derek strains to pick up words from the mumbling, hoping for a clue of what to say that could help.

“No, no, no, not yours, not yours, not yours. Wake up, Dad, please wake up. I’m not theirs. I don’t wanna be theirs. I wanna come home. I wanna come home.  No no no not yours. Never yours. Daddy, please find me. Help me. I don’t wanna be theirs. I—”

“Call the sheriff?” Isaac wonders quietly.  “He’s talking about his dad.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees and Isaac disappears in the house, presumably to find a phone.

            “It’s okay, Stiles,” Derek promises quietly, hoping his words can break through on some level at least.  “You’re safe now. You’re safe. Isaac’s calling your dad, okay? He’ll be home soon. You’re safe.”

 

************************************************************

 

            “Stiles?”

            He looks up at the sound of his father’s voice, on his feet and arms clinging around Daddy’s neck before he even has time to think.  His dad’s arms wrap around him as tight as his human strength can, like he’s never going to let go, and Stiles relaxes, burying his head in Dad’s shoulder as relief floods through him; it’s followed quickly by panic.

            “No, Dad, no you have to get out,” he cries, trying to pull back. “Run, go, it’s not safe. They’ll hurt you. They’ll—”

            “Look at me, Stiles,” his father requests, hands coming up to frame his son’s face.  “Focus on me.”

            Stiles falls silent with a whimper and meets Dad’s eyes.

            “You are safe now; I’m safe now.  They’re all dead. They’re not ever gonna hurt you again.  Just focus on _now_ ; focus on me.   Stay here, stay with me, _this_ moment, okay? Repeat what I just told you.”

            “I’m safe; you’re safe. They’re dead.”

            “You’re home; you’re safe. They’re dead. Say it again.”

            “I’m home; I’m safe. They’re dead,” he echoes obediently, letting the words speak over the terror screaming through his mind.  “I’m home; I’m safe; they’re dead. I’m home; I’m safe; they’re dead.”

            “Good,” Dad praises, pulling him in tight as he continues to repeat the words quietly.  “That’s good, Stiles, keep saying it. Say it until it sinks in.”

            Stiles nods before leaning in again to hide his face in his father’s chest, muffling the words though he doesn’t stop the repetition.  

            “It’s okay, kiddo.  It’s all gonna be okay,” Dad promises.

 

**********************************************

 

            The sheriff is inside, sitting in the recliner with Stiles curled in his lap like a toddler after requesting medicine to get some sleep.  Isaac doesn’t know what the nightmare was, but he’s got a terrifying good guess.  Derek does too if the looks they’ve shared in the past half hour are any indication.  Derek’s on the back porch swing, staring across the yard with a haunted look on his face.

            “It was a nightmare of whatever happened that night in the first week,” Isaac says. 

            Scott had come to check on the sheriff and caught the scent of two alphas and Stiles in the house.  Isaac can still remember the lingering smell of sex and charred flesh that had them all gagging as they rushed to try and follow the trail—though it went dead like hitting a brick wall then just as it did in all the weeks after—and he’s tried hard not to think of that night again.  It seems that’s no longer an option.

            “Looks like it,” Derek says. 

            “I guess—I guess I assumed everything else that happened overshadowed it? I dunno—”

            “They tortured and raped him in his own bed while his dad was downstairs,” Derek says tersely—not that they told the sheriff the trail was that fresh, they let the man think it happened before he got off shift, no point in adding to his misery—and adds, “I was hoping he didn’t even fucking remember it.”

            Derek looks like he needs to kill something to vent the anger. Isaac understands; it’s another one of those moments he wishes he could bring the bastards back just to kill them more slowly.

“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe—” Isaac stops mid-sentence as the pieces click together.

_I said I couldn’t believe he was “ours”; he came to muttering, “I’m not yours.”_

_Derek was fingering him open; they raped him up there._

_Was that it? Did we trigger him? Did we send them back there after he’d repressed it?_

The idea that they caused Stiles to conjure a memory he’d _tried_ to block, not one blocked against his will makes it all the more awful. 

_Is that why it took him so long to come back?_

Even worse than the nausea building in Isaac’s stomach at the thought is the frustration that there’s no way to know for sure that was it.  There’s so much about the flashbacks and nightmares and seizures that they’re never going to understand.  There’re so many variables going on that they couldn’t predict it in the best of situations, much less working with Stiles as their only known case like this.  It’s all guesswork and good wishes and barely getting by sometimes.

_And it’s not good enough.  He deserves more than this.  He deserves people who can figure it out better and help him more and—and something that can give him back his life._

But that’s not an option.  Stiles isn’t ever going to get to be the kid he was before all this—none of them is going to be the people they were before the various atrocities they’ve survived—and it’s not any more fair than it ever is.  It makes him wonder why they bother trying sometimes.

He takes a seat next to Derek on the swing, leaning his head against Derek’s shoulder as Derek laces their fingers together.

“He’s back now,” Derek says.  “That’s the important thing.  We’ll switch his room and the guest room if he wants; the house’ll be done in a couple of weeks anyway so we might as well pack up the stuff.  The sheriff’s got plenty of vacation time saved up, so he’ll stay around the next couple days if Stiles needs it.”

Isaac knows what Derek’s doing.  He’s reminding Isaac—and himself too—that there are clear steps forward now that Stiles is back.  They aren’t stuck waiting helplessly; they’re surer of how to handle this than they are the lengthy regression they endured.  It’s a tarnished silver lining, but better than nothing Isaac supposes.

“Come on,” Derek says, rising and offering Isaac a hand up.  “We’ll help the sheriff get him to bed.”

 

********************************************************

 

            Stiles doesn’t talk about it when he wakes in the guest room with Dad’s hand on his, startling Dad from his doze in the armchair by the bed.  He doesn’t talk about it as Derek makes them pancakes.  He doesn’t talk about it when Scott comes over to play video games or when Jackson brings Chinese for lunch or when Lydia brings out the brownies.  He just chatters pointlessly about any and every little thing he can think of—from the reasons he is clearly the champion of the Wii to arguing with Jackson over the right to blare Bon Jovi and sing at the top of his lungs when they get the stuff ready to grill for dinner.      

            When everything dies down and the others start to head home, Stiles says simply, “Hey, Dad, can we have the guest room?”

            “Yeah, kiddo, sure thing.”

            “We’ll move the bed while you two finish cleaning up,” Isaac offers. 

            He thinks he’s going to make it through without breaching the conversation.  He thinks he’ll be able to mostly shove the horrific memory to the back of his mind again.  In the end though, he gives in to one question as the three of them lie in bed waiting for sleep that’s not going to come to any of them for a while no matter how exhausted they all feel.

            “Did you know they brought me here?” he wonders quietly, and he feels the way they both tense beside him; Isaac grips his hand harder like a promise he’ll never let it go while Derek’s hand leaves Stiles’ like Derek doesn’t deserve to have it.

            “We tried to track you,” Derek swears. “We—”

            “Does Dad know?”

            “He thinks it happened while he was at work.”

            “Good.”

           Stiles means it to be the end of the conversation, but Isaac continues, “Stiles, we shouldn’t have gone so fast—we—we triggered—”

            “I wanted it to happen,” Stiles replies.  “I still want it to happen.  I just—I didn’t know it shouldn’t happen there. I didn’t remember it until—”

_I didn’t remember until I was so deep in the flashback I was choking on the smell of my own burning skin.   It was too much to take, and I guess I just shut down—for a really fucking long time and I’m sorry._

         “I’m fine now,” Stiles says in lieu of finishing the sentence.  “That’s the main thing. I’m back, and I’m okay.”

_The only question is how long ‘okay’ lasts this time?_

           He closes his eyes against the abysmal thought, gripping more tightly to Isaac and Derek than maybe he should if he’s trying to downplay the anxiety.  The weariness seems to seep down to his bones tonight, but it still seems an eternity before he finally manages to drift to sleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeeeeeaaaaaah, I'm actually sorry for this one.
> 
> kind of.
> 
> sorrier than usual anyway, but I hope my fellow angst-gluttons got their fill :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. I'm Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wedding Reception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the closest thing you're going to get to an apology for last chapter :P

            Derek stares out the back window of the newly finished house; all it lacks now is some interior decorating by Lydia to be complete.  She’ll have it all set by the time they’re back from the honeymoon; for now, her attention’s been focused on the back yard.

The rose garden was actually Derek’s request; his grandmother always kept one as long as he could remember.  When the others assumed it was Lydia’s idea, Derek didn’t correct them, and he’s grateful Lydia didn’t either, letting him hide his sentimentality among her other decisions for the house.  Tonight there are endless strands of lights adorning the lattices and hedges.  Strings of lanterns add to the illumination.  She’s had it all catered of course—some fancy place with a name Derek can barely pronounce and a price tag he doesn’t want to think about—and the food is all laid out lavishly on deep blue tablecloths.

Though she’d told them people outside the pack were coming, it’s still odd to see them all here.  Lucy, Darryl, Caroline and her—friend? Partner? Derek’s not sure—sit at a table with Melissa McCall and Deaton, chatting amiably.  Ben Cason and his wife—whose name Derek should remember but doesn’t—a deputy Derek thinks is named Tara, her husband it looks like? —And two other deputies Derek doesn’t know.  Cindy’s here for Isaac, despite the fact they never got very close, but her husband’s not; Derek wonders if Rob couldn’t handle the news of his foster kid entering this kind of union or if he just has other obligations; he decides he doesn’t really care right now. 

The important thing is that the two men he loves most in the world are waiting in other rooms of the house—they’ve been apart for the past 24 hours at Lydia’s insistence it’ll make it all more special—and that they’re ready to reaffirm this commitment in front of anyone and everyone. 

Melissa’s laughter at some joke of Caroline’s carries up to the house, bright and cheerful.  It makes Derek’s chest clench with the ache that Laura’s not here to see this; it’s not the first time he’s thought she and Melissa would’ve made good friends.  He wishes Laura could see him this happy, after all her years of frustration trying to lift Derek out of the pit of darkness he sank into after their family’s deaths.  He wishes the whole family were here, that this was a wedding behind the old house instead of the new, and that Stiles and Isaac could be brought into the strength and safety of the original Hale Pack instead of having to help him forge the new.   Still, it’s much more a happily-ever-after than he thought he’d ever get, and the giddiness building inside him far outshines the gloom.  This isn’t the moment to grieve for the past; it’s the chance to celebrate the future.

And _that_ is what Stiles and Isaac have given Derek that he could never have given himself.  They’re his reason to hope things get better. They’re what keep him looking forward instead of back.  They’re what convince him, just a little at a time, that he deserves a life filled with something besides misery.  Even knowing all the guilt and hatred building for years now in his soul, they somehow manage to make him believe there’s something left in Derek that’s worth being loved.

 

 

 

*******************************************************************

 

“Godammit,” Isaac mutters as he attempts to don his tie for the third time and fails. 

            “Guess it’s a good thing you boys didn’t opt for a church wedding,” the sheriff teases from the doorway.  “Need some help?”

            “I know how to do it; I just—”

            “Nervous?”

            “I don’t know why.  I’m _already_ married.”

            The sheriff shrugs, “Yeah, but I’m guessing this feels a little more dauntingly official that whatever you three did with the rings.  Let me,” he persists, crossing the room and taking both ends of the tie as he fixes it himself.  “If it makes you feel any better, I had to help Stiles too.”

            “How is he?” Isaac wonders.

            “Talking a mile a minute when I left; Scott’s in there now.”

            “Have you talked to Derek yet?”

            “Not yet.”      

            “He’s here though, right?”

            The sheriff smiles at Isaac’s absurd question. Of course Derek’s here. He’s not going to bail on a ceremony with two men he’s _already_ married to.

            “Yes, he’s here,” he sheriff answers obligingly.  “Lydia snagged him the minute he walked in—something about convincing him to shave for once in his life. The sheriff concentrates for a few moments more on the task at hand before he’s satisfied. “There,” he says, straightening the tie just a little.  “All set.”

            “Thanks.”

            “No problem.”

            Isaac glances at himself in the mirror.  He looks older—hell, he feels older.  He never bothered going to dances or prom; half the time there were much bigger issues to be dealt with.  He hasn’t worn a suit since Cam’s funeral. 

            _God, I wish you were here, Cam._

Maybe he’d been kind of an asshole sometimes—he liked to drink too much, even as a teenager, and he never could manage to keep himself to one girl at a time—but he was still a good brother.  He provoked Dad on the worst nights to keep him from picking on Isaac.  He kept his friends from giving Isaac too much grief.  He wrote Isaac even after he got deployed—said how sorry he was he left Isaac alone with Dad, promised Isaac could come live with him once he got back to the States and saved up enough for a place—always at least one or two letters a week until…

            “You’ll be fine,” the sheriff promises, clapping a comforting hand on Isaac’s shoulder as he mistakes the melancholy for nervousness. “Don’t worry.”

            Isaac takes a deep breath, pulling himself back to the cheerfulness of the moment. 

            “Yeah, I’m good,” he says forcing a smile.  “No worries.”

            “I’m really happy for you three,” the sheriff says, “you’re going to have one helluva life together.”

            “Thanks.”

            _I sure hope so.  I think we’ve fucking earned it._

********************************************************

 

            “Hey, kiddo,” Dad says coming back in.  “They’re about ready to start.  You ready to go?”

            “Yep,” he answers, brushing quickly at tears and he tucks the picture of Mom back in his pocket.

It’s well-worn from years in his wallet, and he feels like she should be with him today, too.

            “She’d be so proud of you, Stiles. You know that?”

            Stiles nods, not trusting his voice, and Dad pulls him into a tight hug.

            “No tears, just smiles,” he says quietly to his son, repeating the rule Mom made during her last days.  “She’s still with you.”

            “Yeah.”

            Stiles pulls back from the hug, taking a deep breath to steady himself, trying to ignore the fact that Dad’s playing with his wedding band though he probably doesn’t even realize it.  He understands better now why Dad’s never been able to take it off.  Stiles can't bear to imagine losing Isaac or Derek—can’t imagine giving up such a precious reminder of them if he did.  The thoughts of them bring him back to the moment, the happiness he should be focusing on, not the longing for his mom. 

            _No tears. Just smiles. She’s still with me._        

 

********************************************************

 

The hand fasting ceremony was all Lydia’s idea, but Derek fucking loves it.  It’s perfect for pack; it’s easy to manipulate into a three-person union.  Most importantly, he doesn’t have to say a damn word, just clasp his hands in Stiles’ and Isaac’s.  Lydia’s suggestion that everyone in the pack gets a cord and helps to join the three seems to fit it all perfectly.   

Derek’s the last of the three to exit the house. Isaac’s just joined Stiles by the ornately decorated table where Lydia has the cords laid out.  They’re beaming at him, and Derek’s honestly breathless for just a moment at the sight.  He’s utterly overwhelmed and the ceremony hasn’t even started yet.

_Oh fuck, I’m going to be tearing up like a pansy by the end of this._

He realizes he’s not nearly as embarrassed about that as he should be.

 

****************************************************************

 

            Once Deaton’s recited a history of the meaning of a hand fasting union, Lydia comes up to be the first to take a cord, probably to make sure the others can mimic her and don’t fuck up her plan for the flow of things.

            “I honestly wasn’t sure you three were going to be able to pull this off,” she admits, “but you three have always kind of had a way of going against the odds.”  She reaches to start winding the cord around their hands as she continues, “There’s no doubt in my mind anymore that you’re going to make this work.  You’ve all grown so much together, and I can’t wait to see how much better life gets for the three of you.  I love you all.”

            Isaac can feel the tears burning the back of his eyes at the words.

            _Dammit, Lydia. I can’t be losing it already._

Jackson stands as Lydia returns to her seat, and Isaac can’t help the slight surprise.  He knows the whole pack was given the chance to say something, but he expected Jackson to tag along with Lydia’s or pass altogether.  Instead Jackson takes the gray chord from the table and steps over to where they stand. 

            “Still don’t know how the hell you three morons make this work,” he says, so quietly that the words are just for the three of them—and Scott’s werewolf hearing. “But I’m glad you figured it out.  You guys deserve something good after all the shit you’ve been through.”  At the last words, his eyes linger just a moment on Isaac’s; Isaac can’t help but marvel at how fucking far Jackson’s come from the total ass he used to be. 

           

**********************************************************************************************

 

Scott rises as Jackson sits.  His eyes find Stiles’ as he starts talking.  “You’ve been my best friend for like _forever_ , man,” Scott says as he loops the cord around. “So—uh—I wouldn’t be on board with all this if I didn’t think you two loved the hell out of him,” he goes on, looking to Derek and Isaac with something just shy of a hurt-him-and-I’ll-kill-you glare; Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Just—just be good to each other and stuff, ya know?” he says, gaze softening as he concentrates back on the rope in his hands. “You guys are pretty awesome together. I’m happy for you.”

He finishes by clapping a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and clearing his throat not so discreetly in an effort to avoid too much emotion.  Stiles loses his battle against tears when he locks eyes with Dad as he comes up to take the last remaining cord from the table.  He’s got tears streaming unchecked down his face, but he’s smiling so hard his cheeks have to be hurting. 

“God, I love you so much, kiddo, you know that?” he asks, laying a hand on his son’s shoulders.  “And I am so happy that you found two excellent men to love and share the rest of your life with,” he says with a smile just for Isaac and Derek.  “And it’s not going to be an easy road, but you three can do it together.  I know you can.” His father stops, clearly not done speaking but trying to keep his composure enough to be understood; he clears his throat and takes a deep breath before going on, “I can’t handle losing you,” he says finally, “but it’s okay because I’m not losing a son. I’m gaining two, and I couldn’t be more proud of you boys. I love ya.”

 

***************************************************************

 

             Derek tried to refuse the idea of a dance, but one look at Isaac’s and Stiles’ faces in their attempts to hide disappointment at Derek’s “Absolutely not,” and Derek was already caving.  That’s how he landed himself here, with all eyes on him, starting the switching-partner simplified waltz adaptation Lydia devised.  There were maybe more tears—albeit happy ones—than any of them care to admit during the ceremony, but now there’s nothing but laughter and smiles as they dance and the others move to join them on the floor.  Derek bows out as soon as he can, more than content to hang on the fringes and watch Isaac and Stiles enjoy themselves.

            “Little unorthodox,” Ben says, coming over to shake Derek’s hand in congratulations, “but you guys seem pretty damn happy.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Bet you couldn’t get that dopey grin off your face if you tried.”

            “Probably not,” Derek agrees, unashamed. 

            “Come on,” Stiles says crossing the floor to grab Derek’s hand, “We’re cutting the cake.”

            Derek’s still not sure how Stiles talked Lydia into it, but the top of the cake is adorned with not three traditional looking groomsmen but rather small figures of Batman, The Flash, and Spiderman, all wearing small top hats (which was Scott’s added touch.)  They may or may not all be wearing the corresponding t-shirt to their superhero counterparts underneath their suits. 

            He takes his place by Stiles and Isaac at the table, engraved cake server in all three of their hands as they cut the first pieces together.  There was never any chance the cheesy tradition of feeding each other the first bite was going to end in anything other than a food fight.  Derek knows the moment the flash goes off that this is going to be his favorite picture of the day: cake smeared across all their faces, Derek’s head thrown back in laughter as Stiles raises a fist in triumph and Isaac digs into the cake for retaliation ammo.

            _Damn, I fucking love my life._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a big thanks to Dana for being a sounding board too! :) 
> 
> Shoutout to all of you who've sent prompts and wonderings about weddings and things.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek at Christmas in the new house!

 

            “Can I help you, Mr. Hale?” the associate asks.

            It says a lot about how often Derek’s been in here that most of the workers know him by name.  He drops in at least a couple times a week getting odds and ends as they finish up the last touches on the house.  Today he’s here on a different sort of errand.

            “I made a list,” he offers, holding it out and glancing at her nametag to add quickly, “Grace.”

            He should know her name by now.  She’s always got a kind smile and helpful advice when he’s in here trying schedule installations or to make sure he picks out ceiling fans and shutters that don’t clash with Lydia’s meticulously planned out design schemes or order unreasonably expensive appliances.

            “Oh wow.  I think we’re going to need a couple more carts.”

            “Yeah, I think so.”

            “How’s the house?”

            “Finished except the interior decorating.”

            “Oh, that’s great! Just in time for Christmas.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “Now, I told you not to call me—”

            “And I told you to quit calling me Mr. Hale.”

            “Fair enough, _Derek_ ,” she replies with a fond smile.   “Let’s see if we can’t get you fixed up.”

            “Thanks.”

 

***************************************************

 

            They pull into the drive just behind Jackson and Lydia.  Stiles is pretty sure he and Isaac bought enough food to feed a small third world country, but he couldn’t quite make up his mind what he wanted to make.  He opted for buying all of it and sending the leftovers to the department with Dad.  When the house comes into view, Stiles can’t help smiling. 

            “Well, look at that.  Never doubt the powers of Lydia Martin’s planning.”

            “Dude, our house is going to look like a post card.”

            “Our house,” Stiles repeats, grinning even wider because _damn_ he never gets tired of saying that. 

            They lived with Dad right after the wedding, despite Stiles’ best attempts to argue it made him feel like a fucking loser.  Derek insisted they weren’t moving into the house until it was totally ready, which was two days ago when the final bulb was screwed into the light fixture in the foyer.

            Isaac’s exactly right about the look of it.  There’s a wreath in every window, complete with a little battery-powered candle.  There’s an even larger wreath on the front door.  Garlands wrap around the banisters of the porch.   Derek is on the roof hanging icicle lights. 

            “Nice, Lydia,” Stiles says as they all get out.

            “Wasn’t me,” she replies, smiling approvingly up at the house, apparently satisfied with Derek’s work.

            “What?” Isaac asks.

            “I didn’t tell him to get any outside decorations,” she expounds.  “I mean, I had the list of course.  I was going to give it to him tonight, but this is all Derek.”

            “Holy shit, for real?” Stiles asks, gawking in spite of himself.

            “You gonna stand down there and stare at me, or are you going to move your asses and help?” Derek demands from the roof.

            He may be trying to come across as his usual surly self, but Stiles can hear the giddiness in his voice.  

            “How many fucking trees did you get, man?” Jackson wonders, and for the first time Stiles takes in the large pile of cedars stacked to the side of the house.

            “One for every room,” Derek replies.  “Let Lydia pick the ones she wants for downstairs.  The rest of you can fight for which ones go in your bedrooms.”

 

*****************************************************

 

            The whole house smells like cedar and the apple cider that’s warming on the stove.  Derek loves and hates how many memories it’s bringing back.  Lydia is already donning trees with the ornaments and lights she ordered weeks ago.  Jackson’s clearly trying his best to look put upon as he follows her around, but he keeps forgetting to frown.  Scott is in the kitchen with Stiles helping prep everything for tomorrow’s dinner.   Derek escapes for a minute to the back porch with the excuse of wrapping some garland on the banisters back there. 

            “Hey, we’re taking a vote,” Isaac says, sticking his head out the back door.  “You want grilled cheese or spaghetti for supper?”

            “I take it you’re cooking?” Derek teases.

            “Shut up, okay?  We all remember what happened last time you told me to ‘branch out.’”

            _Yeah, I didn’t think anyone could screw up chicken casserole that badly._

 _“_ I’m volunteering because Stiles has his hand shoved up a duck’s ass at the moment.”

“You bought duck?”

            “He wanted to give turducken a shot.”

            “Nice.  He’s been getting ambitious lately.”

            “Well, he has a kitchen the cast of Top Chef would kill for, so you can’t really blame him.”

            Derek smiles at the comment, remembering the look on Stiles’ face the first time he walked in there. 

            “Try not to burn it down when you cook dinner,” Derek requests.

            “Haha, so funny,” Isaac replies with a roll of his eyes.  “You want to cook?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought. So what d’you vote for me to serve, O Mighty Alpha?”

            “Whatever’s easier. I don’t care. I’m not that hungry.”

            Isaac’s eyes narrow at the answer, and he studies Derek a moment.

            “What’s wrong?”

             “Just because I’m not eating everything in sight like Stiles doesn’t mean something’s wrong with me,” Derek says, trying to deflect the impending inquiry.

            “So then answer the question.”

            Derek averts his eyes, focusing back to twining the garland a moment or two before he says, “My dad fucking _loved_ Christmas.”

            “Oh.”

            “Wreaths, trees, lights, gingerbread houses, cookies, those cheesy ass little light up Santas and snowmen things,” Derek lists off, smiling at the memory, “God, my Mom _despised_ those little Santa things.  She tried to throw them away one year and he just bought new ones—and twice as many of them.”

            Derek can practically hear the argument even now.

            “ _They’re festive, Talia! Don’t be a Scrooge,” Dad says._

_“I’m not a Scrooge. I’m an Alpha,” Mom counters, “ and I’d rather not be the laughing stock of—”_

_“Oh, I’m so sorry my Christmas spirit isn’t cool enough for you,” Dad snarks._

_“I like the other decorations. They look great, William, really, but those damn—”_

_“Come on, the kids love them!” Dad insists._

_“That new Santa you bought makes Ian cry.”_

_“So does your brother’s face but we keep him around,” Dad teases._

_“Hey!” Peter protests as Derek nearly snorts cider through his nose with an unconcealed laugh._

_“Come on, Derek, back me up here,” Dad requests. “You like them, right?”_

_“Sure, when I was like four,” Derek replies.  “Mom’s got a point. They’re kind of lame.”_

_“The word ‘tacky’ comes to mind,” Peter chimes in._

_“I like them, Dad,” Laura chimes in._

_“Me too!” Madison agrees, determined as ever to be just like her big sister._

_“Suck up,” Derek mutters, and Laura stamps on his foot._

“Well, the house looks awesome,” Isaac says.  “I—uh—kind of wondered how Christmas would go with you.  You haven’t seemed very excited.”

            “I was going to leave it to Lydia,” Derek admits.  “But I haven’t ever—ever put up anything except the kind of stuff he used to do and—”

            _I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing the house done any other way._

“I dunno,” Derek says with a shrug, not sure he has to words to really explain it even if he wanted to try.  “It seems like it suits the house though, right?”

            “It’s absolutely perfect,” Isaac confirms with a genuine smile.  “I’m kind of excited about all this.  Christmas was never a big deal with us, not even when Mom was still around.  It’ll be kinda cool to have a whole big family Christmas thing you know? Hallmark moments and shit.”

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees, returning the smile and wondering if any of those family pictures Gran took every Christmas by the fireplace are still around. 

            “I’ll put your vote toward grilled cheese, ‘kay?” Isaac offers with a quick kiss.  “Supper in twenty.”

            “Okay, I’ll be in. Thanks.”

 

***********************************************************

 

            Christmas Eve is chaos, but the kind Isaac absolutely loves.  The whole house is filled with the delicious aromas wafting out of the kitchen.  Stiles cooked a feast they’ll never be able to finish, even with the whole pack here, but no one’s complaining.  Derek has a fire going in the hearth; Scott reckons they could do s’mores after dinner if they want to.  Lydia’s arranging the piles of gifts under the tree so she can take the perfect picture.  She’s taken it upon herself to document the happenings of the pack, and Isaac suspects there’s a scrapbook somewhere she’s keeping to date.  Ms. McCall is in the kitchen helping Stiles, though from the sound of it she’s not very confident in her cooking ability.  Isaac would offer to help, but he’s been banned since he scorched the asparagus earlier. 

            “Okay, grab a plate and head for the table,” Stiles calls through the house. 

            No one wastes any time hurrying to the kitchen.  It’s been torture to salivate over the cooking all day and not be able to try anything.  Scott nearly lost an arm for attempting to taste the glaze earlier.  They lay the food out on the enormous dining room table.  It seems too elegant for this ragtag bunch, given it will likely be donned with pizza more often than not, but Lydia insisted on the hand-carved mahogany. 

            _We’re building a place to leave a legacy,_ she’d insisted, and Derek had agreed.  At the time Isaac thought they were reaching a little far.  Sitting here now, looking at the dinner laid out, realizing that this will likely be the way they’ll spend every Christmas Eve for the foreseeable future, he can see a hint of the legacy Lydia was talking about. 

            _We’re not just getting by anymore; things’re lasting.  It’s a permanent pack._

**********************************************

 

            “Move your, ass, Sourwolf,” Stiles whines, shoving at Derek as Isaac pulls on his arms.  “It’s Christmas!!”

            “It’s five in the morning.”

            “Five _thirty_ ,” Stiles corrects.  “We already made breakfast and everything. I’m never good at being patient, much less today.  Come _on_!”

            “Go eat; I’ll be up in a—”

            “You brought this on yourself you know,” Isaac informs him, and Derek wonders what he means until Isaac begins to tickle him mercilessly in attempt to loosen Derek’s grip enough to allow Stiles to boot him off the bed.

            “You fucker! I—stop it—stop! That’s not funny, Isaac!” he insists angrily through unintentional giggles, staying in bed more from spite than a desire to go back to sleep.  “I mean it! Cut it out!”

            The last three words come out in the Alpha tone, and he curses his half-awake brain when Stiles scrambles backwards so quickly he nearly falls off the bed himself.  Isaac smacks Derek in the back of the head as Stiles forces a smile.

            “I’m okay,” he promises.  “No worries.”

            “I didn’t mean to—”

            “No apologizing, S—sou—sourwolf,” Stiles insists, pushing out the insult.  “Just come on and eat.”

            “Okay, okay,” Derek concedes.

            They trek to the kitchen together.  Stiles is going on about how awesome the big griddle extension on the stove is.

            “Seriously, dude, it makes everything so much easier.  Like I could totally cook breakfast for the whole pack no problem.  Like maybe Saturday mornings or something? Like brunch stuff? Anyway, eat up.  I kinda went overboard,” Stiles admits.

            “Kinda?” Derek replies.

            There’s breakfast casserole, scrambled cheese eggs, toast, bacon, mushrooms, sausage, ham, potatoes, and—

            “Is that eggs benedict?”

            Stiles shrugs.  “Figured I’d give it a shot.”

            “How long have you been awake?” Derek wonders.

            “Since three,” Isaac replies with a grin.  “Apparently this is the one and only day of the year he willingly gets out of bed.”

            “It’s Christmas,” Stiles replies.  “There is no such thing as too early.”

            He’s heaping his plate full of the various foods as he talks, nearly buzzing with excitement.  Derek still needs a cup of coffee or two before he’ll hit full fun-mode, but it’s hard not to smile at the way Stiles is practically bouncing with anticipation.

            “So we’re doing gifts in like, fifteen minutes tops,” he informs.  “You better fucking inhale your food.”

            “Someone’s awfully excited to get a sack of coal,” Isaac teases.

            “Fuck you. I’m useful—good—I didn’t get coal!” Stiles replies.  “I got books and some kind of jewelry thing and a new laptop,” he continues like the conditioned words didn’t weasel into the conversation.

            “You peeked!” Isaac accuses.

            “I shook,” Stiles corrected with a grin.  “And I have my sources.”

            “You shook all your presents? What’re you? Three?”

            “Come on, guessing’s half the fun.  Plus I’m fucking good at it.”

            “There’s at least one you didn’t guess,” Derek says confidently. 

            “Oh really?” Stiles wonders, raising a skeptical eyebrow. 

            “Really.”

            “And if I have guessed?”

            “You haven’t.”

            “We’ll see about that,” Stiles persists; he bolts from his chair, fork clattering down on his half-empty plate. “Last one to the tree opens last,” he cries, apparently at the end of his patience.

            Derek and Isaac chase after him; Derek wins easily, but Isaac doesn’t seem to care.

            “Okay,” Stiles says eyeing his small pile of bounty.  “Which first?”

 

*****************************************************

 

            Stiles totally guessed all his presents right so far.  There’s just one left now.

            “What’s this one?” Isaac asks him.

            “It’s a Blu-ray, duh,” Stiles replies with a huff.  “I don’t know why you guys would make me wait to open _this_ one when there were like a million other—”

            “Nobody said you were right; maybe it’s not just a Blu-ray,” Derek says.

            “You can hear the disc rattle,” Stiles points out, shaking the package to demonstrate.  “Is it a special movie or something—wait, you didn’t get me porn for Christmas did you? Because that’s—”

            “You are ridiculous,” Derek informs.  “Just open it.”

            “Don’t have to tell me twice,” Stiles replies. 

He rips the paper aside to reveal—

            “An ATV safety video? What the hell? We don’t even—no— _shut up_ —a four-wheeler?! I swear to God if you two are fucking with me—”

            “Shed by the pond,” Isaac reveals, and Stiles is flying out of the room in the next instant.

            He wishes for a moment that he’d paused for shoes on his way out the door, but it’s not too bad running barefoot.  He can hear Derek and Isaac close behind him, chuckling at his exuberance.  He nearly rips the door off its hinges when he gets to the shed, and waiting there is a badass, blazing blue four-wheeler.  Stiles doesn’t know much about ATVs, but he knows enough that this was fucking expensive and probably top of the line or some shit.  The keys are on the seat, and he cranks it with barely a moment’s hesitation. 

            “Guess you like it?” Derek wonders.

            “Dude, good luck getting me back in the house any time this week.  This is _awesome_!”

            “You’ll run out of gas eventually,” Isaac reminds.

            “Helmet,” Derek says, picking it up off the rack on the back.

            “I’m a werewolf.  I’ll be fine.”

            “ _Helmet_ ,” Derek repeats, unwavering.

            “Okay, okay,” Stiles agrees. 

            “And this,” Isaac adds, grabbing a wrist strap Stiles hadn’t noticed before.  “Pulls a kill switch if you fall off.”

            “So you can ride by yourself,” Derek adds.

            And it’s _then_ that the real gift they’re trying to give clicks for Stiles.  He can’t drive his Jeep anymore.  He can’t go to town on his own even if he walked all the way.  He goes for walks and runs on his own sometimes, but that’s about all he can do to get some time alone out of the house.  This isn’t just a four-wheeler; it’s a ticket to independence—at least a little independence anyway.  It’s going to worry them sick to watch him ride off, but they’re gonna let him. 

            “Thanks, guys.”

            “Merry Christmas,” Isaac replies, and Derek smiles and nods.

            Stiles revs the engine, grinning.

            “Let’s see if she’s faster than an Alpha,” he challenges.   “Last one to the house does breakfast dishes.”

 

 

           

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just FYI I made vague-shadows.tumblr.com as a writing blog for anyone who doesn't want the craziness of my regular tumblr and doesn't get AO3 updates


	9. Think something dark's living down in my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes back to school. (January)
> 
> Part 1/3 for this arc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Brand New Song "At the Bottom"

            “We’ll work up to a full day slowly,” Ms. Morrell says.  “One class the first day, and then you can work up to staying all day.  You teachers all know you may have frequent absences; they’re all very proud of you for taking the steps to come back to school.  They’ll work with you as much as possible, but don’t take advantage of it.”

            “I won’t,” Stiles swears. “I appreciate this.”

            “I hope you enjoy being back, Stiles,” the new principal, Mr. Sommers, says with a smile.  “I’ve certainly enjoyed my time at the school so far.  I can see why you’d miss it.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Let us know if we can do anything to help you.”

            “I will. Thanks.”

            He walks out of the office with Dad.  Dad looks like he’s sending Stiles off to the firing squad instead of first period English.  Stiles gives him a quick hug.

            “I’ll be fine,” he assures.  “I got the whole pack.”

            “Are you sure you don’t want me to—”

            “Go to work, Dad; don’t worry about me.”

            Stiles knows his father is probably going to call the station and tell them he’ll be in late.  He’ll most likely be sitting in the car in the back of the parking lot with Derek—though that will at least make Derek look less of a creeper—and Stiles is actually kind of glad of it, even though he really does think he’ll be okay. Isaac steps forward as the sheriff moves to leave.  His hand hovers near Stiles’ but he doesn’t grab it just yet.  The halls are still empty.  It’s nearly an hour before the bell for first period; Stiles wanted to get his bearings before the place got packed with innocent teenagers.

            _Oh God.  People. Lots and lots of people. Human people who are unpredictable and trigger shit without trying and don’t heal if I—_

The feel of Isaac’s hand in his cuts off the spiral of worry. 

            “You’re gonna do great.”

            “Here’s hoping,” Stiles answers with a shrug.

            “Come on.  Ms. Clark’s class is on C-hall.”

 

************************************************************

 

            “Morning, boys,” Ms. Clark greets.

She’s pretty new to Beacon Hills High, this is only her second year of teaching, but Isaac and the others say she knows her shit.  Stiles hopes they’re right.  English is generally one of his favorite classes. She’s young with bright green eyes and strawberry blonde hair just a bit lighter than Lydia’s.  She smiles like she means it.

“Morning,” Isaac says.  “Good break, Ms. Clark?”

“Very good break,” she replies.  “How about you two?”

            “Yeah, ours was good too.”

            “I’m glad you’re able to come back to school, Stiles,” she says kindly.  “I want to do whatever I can to ease the burden, okay?”

            One word shouldn’t set off the cascade of thought so easily, but it does; it really does. 

            _She doesn’t even mean anything by it.  She’s being nice. She wants to help. She’s not calling me a burden. I’m not a burden; I’m loved and useful and kept.  I’m not a burden; I’m loved and useful and kept._

As he fights to tune out the voices in his mind, he twists the ring on his finger, the solid reminder of the argument he’s waging with Thomas’ voice, insisting how burdensome and useless he always is.

            “Stiles, are you okay?” she asks worriedly.

            “Yep,” he replies with a smile he knows isn’t fooling her one bit.  “Sorry, I just—”

            “There’s—um—there’s certain words that kinda trigger stuff sometimes,” Isaac explains for him.  “That’s all.”

            “Oh, I see. I apologize; I didn’t—”

            “It’s really okay,” Stiles assures.

            “Could you make me a list?” she wonders. 

            “You don’t have to—”

            “I want to ease the transition as much as I can, Stiles.  I can’t promise you I’ll always succeed, but if I know what topics or words to avoid, I’ll do my best.”

            “Yeah, here. I can write a few down,” Isaac offers.

Isaac beams at her like he could hug her here and now for being so eager to help.  He pulls a piece of paper from his binder and starts to write as Stiles tries not to feel too mortified for being this much trouble.

            “Some of them are like pretty common words,” Stiles says, “so don’t—don’t like stress it or anything. I’m usually pretty okay.  And a bunch of my pa—my uh—my friends are in this class. They know what to do if I—uh—have like a flashback or whatever.”

            _They know to get me the hell out before I hurt anyone._

“If I could—sit near one of them. That’d be good.”

            “I’ve got you and Isaac by the door,” she answers.  “In case you need to leave?  Does that work?”

            “That’s awesome.”

            She smiles.  “Great.”

            “Thanks for being cool about this. I know it’s kind of a pain, but—”

            “It’s no problem. I did have one question, though.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Half your paperwork has you listed as Stiles Hale but the others say—”

            “Use Hale,” Stiles replies before she can butcher the pronunciation of his birth name—now his legal middle name.

            “For both of us,” Isaac adds.

            “Ah—yes I saw that change on the roll.  Not a typo then?”

            “No.”

            She’s waiting for an elaboration. The curiosity on her face is unmistakable. They don’t humor her though because Scott walks in, providing the perfect distraction.

            “Hey, buddy, glad to be back?” he asks with a wide grin.  “Mom sent you breakfast.”

            “What?”

            “I told her I was pretty sure you get fed at home, but ya know, she’s worried or whatever,” Scott replies with a shrug, offering a muffin Stiles is pretty sure Ms. McCall just took out of manufacturer’s packaging and rewrapped to just make it _look_ like she baked; she was never much for cooking, but it’s the thought that counts.

            “Tell her I said thanks,” Stiles replies.  “I’m still full from breakfast; you want it?”

            It’s a lie.  He’d been too nervous to eat breakfast. 

            “You sure you don’t?”

            “Dude, I’ll be back home in like an hour.  You’re the one trapped here all day,” he replies.  “No offense, Ms. Clark,” Stiles says with a quick glance back up to her desk.

            “None taken, Stiles.  I was a teenager once too.”

            She’s smiling at him like she’s proud of him.

            _What do you have to be proud of? For all you know I’ve never had a problem with this.  Don’t patronize me, lady; you don’t know me.  I don’t need your sympathy._

He does though. He needs her to understand he’s going to have issues and need help.  He needs her to avoid words and let him sit with Isaac and not stop him if he tries to leave class suddenly.  He does need her sympathy, her pity, her help.

            _Help of a human.  How pathetic are you?_ Alec’s voice wonders.

_No. stop it. Nothing’s wrong with humans. Nothing’s wrong with needing help. I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m loved and useful and kept.  I’m loved and useful and kept._

He squeezes his eyes shut, twisting at his wedding band again as the criticism comes in Rachel’s voice next.

_You should’ve stayed home.  Been less of a burden on your pack by humoring the alpha and taking the pointless classes online.   You know you’re too fucked up for any kind of career even if you do get your diploma. College? Who’re you kidding? There’s no future for you no matter what degrees you get.  You’re just stressing them out for the sake of masquerading as normal.  You selfish, burdensome—_

“Stiles, look at me!” Isaac commands, and Stiles wrenches his eyes open to see Isaac’s face just inches away.  “You’re okay.  You’re good. You’re safe, okay?”

            _They call you good. They say you’re safe.  Look how much trouble you’ve cause them,_ Thomas taunts. _All worrying about you.  You might be safe, but you’re putting your classmates in danger._

“Wrong,” Stiles mutters, hoping Isaac can tell the words aren’t directed at him as Stiles closes his eyes again “Shut up. I’m okay. I’m good. It’s okay.”

 _Selfish. Pathetic. Burdensome,_ Rachel insists. _You should never have come.  What were you thinking? Selfish. Pathetic. Burdensome._

“Stiles,” Derek’s Alpha tone is barely audible even for the wolves in the room, but it’s enough.  “Don’t listen to their voices. They’re lying to you.  You’re not a burden, not weak, nothing is wrong with you.  Don’t listen to them.”

            The instinct to obey the command overshadows the conjured voice, and Stiles opens his eyes again. 

            “Thanks,” he says gratefully, not entirely sure it’s even loud enough for Derek to hear. 

            “Boys?” Ms. Clark says worriedly.

            “We’re good,” Stiles replies.  “Sorry.  I’ll be fine once the lesson starts and there’s something to focus on.”

            “We don’t have to do this today,” Isaac reminds him. 

            “One class,” Stiles counters.  “I can do one class. I got this.”

           

 

 

************************************************************

 

            It’s the Friday of Stiles’ second week back.  He’s made it two full days now, today will mark three, and the sheriff’s having everyone over for a grill-out to celebrate.  Isaac’s pretty sure part of it is also to ensure some pack dinners still happen at the sheriff’s.  The house has to be insanely quiet now that he’s the only one in it.  Isaac wonders if the sheriff will ever move to something smaller, but he doubts it.  The memories of Joanna are too strong in the house; he won’t give them up.

            Isaac’s so fucking proud of Stiles it’s hard not to just lean in and kiss him every five seconds.  It’s odd to glance over at him and see him paying such rapt attention in each class.  Isaac knows it’s because he’s latching onto the task of learning like a lifeline, using the distraction to downplay the anxiety, and he’s glad Stiles can maintain the focus.  It just also kind of makes him ache for the Stiles who used to fidget through class, sending texts, hitting Scott with spitballs, asking annoying questions of the teacher.

            The final bell rings in six minutes and seventeen seconds.  Isaac’s been watching the clock on the wall tick by at what seems an excruciatingly slow pace.  He’s zoned out almost completely, but he snaps back to attention the moment Stiles starts to rise from his seat.  Stiles bolts for the door, and Isaac’s right behind him.

            _Flashback? Seizure? What? What is it?_

“Stiles!”

            He pushes through the door at the end of the hall just as the first convulsion hits him.  Isaac manages to get there before Stiles’ head hits the concrete; he tries to keep him from bashing his skull against the hard surface as he thrashes, eyes rolling back in his head as he spasms. 

            “I’ll keep them back,” Scott says, going to intercept the PE class that’s running over to see what’s happening.

            Isaac props one foot against the door, hoping it’ll keep any students from coming out.  Jackson’s voice sounds a few moments later from the other side, dispelling Isaac’s worry a bit.

            “Oh, come on, you losers, get the fuck away from the doors. So he’s having a seizure, big whoop. Bad enough without seeing your ugly ass faces when he comes to.” 

            “Mr. Whittemore, language,” Mr. Hudon’s voice scolds.

            “Yeah, well, maybe if you kept your class in control I wouldn’t have to; hey! Get your fucking phone out of that window you fucking—”

            “Detention!”

            “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Jackson answers distractedly.  “Give me that!”

 Isaac hears the smack of plastic hitting brick that tells him Jackson’s destroyed the phone he was after.  His attention is fully back to Stiles as he finally stops jerking, and Isaac starts praying.

            _Please recognize me as a higher beta. Please recognize me as a higher beta._

He moves to be the first thing Stiles sees just as Stiles’ eyes blink open and then widen in terror.

            “It’s okay,” Isaac says quietly, hands firmly on Stiles’ shoulders in case he tries to flee.  “You’re okay.  I’ll take you to the Alpha. Don’t speak to or hurt any of the humans; you’re not allowed.”

            He sees the distrust in Stiles’ eyes as they dart toward the group of students watching them anxiously.  He sees the flare of blue in Stiles’ eyes.

            “Do you want to be punished?” Isaac says, hating himself for using a threat.

            “No! No, I can—”

            “Then listen to me,” Isaac insists.  “The Alpha will be _very_ angry if you hurt any of the humans.  You can’t; you understand?”

            Stiles nods, still unsure, but meeker now the threat of punishment has been given.

            “Can you be good and stand up and walk with me?”

            “Yes.”

            Stiles obliges, but his balance is shaky.

            “Lean on me,” Isaac instructs.  “I’ll help—”

            “I’m not weak,” Stiles insists, shying from the touch.

            “I know.”

            “I can be good. I can walk with you.”

            “Okay. Come on. Stay close.”

 

**********************************************

 

            “Dude, yeah he fucking pissed himself and everything. Look.”

            Isaac catches the voice as he opens his locker.  He looks down the hall to see the guy holding his phone out for a few others to look at; they’re muffling laughter against their hands.

            “Oh my God, Brent, don’t be such a douche.  It’s not like he can help it.”

            “Dude, he _pissed_ himself!” Brent repeats like it’s the punchline of the funniest joke known to man.  “You can’t tell me that’s not fucking hilarious, Kristy.  It’s got like four thousand views already.”

            _You son of a bitch.  He’s been through enough! We have all been through enough!_

Before he really makes the decision to, Isaac all but sprints toward Brent.  He slams into him hard, shoving him back into the lockers.  The phone goes flying, cracking against the floor somewhere.

            “Dude, what the _fuck_ is your problem?!”

            “He’s been through enough without jackass motherfuckers like you pulling shit like this!” 

He pins Brent easily to the lockers with one hand as he swings with the other. 

“You sick little shit! He’s been through enough! We’ve all been through enough! His life is fucking _hell_! Then you’re going to make it worse?! Goddamn you! He’s been though enough! Leave him the fuck alone! He’s been through enough! You leave him alone or I swear I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you! I will—”

            The punch that blindsides Isaac comes from nowhere.  He staggers sideways with the bitter taste of blood in his mouth.  He rounds to defend himself against the new assailant, but before he can hands grab his wrist with a vice-like hold.

            “Jackson?”

            “You have to stop, Isaac! You have to!”

            “What?” he replies.  _What did you expect me to do? Just stand there?_

“You have to calm down, man; you have to stop,” Scott’s voice adds, and his arms wrap around Isaac from behind, holding him back and slowing his struggle against Jackson.

            “Oh my God, he won’t wake up!” a girl shrieks, and Isaac turns toward the sound.

            Isaac’s horrified at the sight in front of him.  Brent lies on the tile with blood spilling to the floor around him.  His face is an unrecognizable mess of swelled, abused flesh, and undeniably broken bones.

            “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Kristy rages before turning her attention back to Brent.  “Come on, Brent. Can you hear me? Can you—”

            Everything else fades to a dull roar in his ears as Isaac looks down to take in the blood on his hands.  The bones are slowly healing themselves, and that’s how he knows the damage he did to the human kid must be bad. 

            Really bad.

            Needs to go to the hospital bad.

            _What did I do? Oh my God. What did I do?_

           

**********************************************

 

            It’s the sheriff’s voice that breaks through the daze.

            “I’m here for the kid who beat the hell out of Brent Anderson? I assume the school resource officer has him?”

            “Yeah, he’s in the principal’s office with Officer Parks.”

            “Thanks, Mandy.”

            “Sheriff,” she calls as though he’s started walking past her toward the door.  “It’s Isaac Hale.”

            “It’s—what?” the sheriff asks in disbelief, and just a second later the door to the office bursts open.  “Isaac?”

            Isaac can’t look up at him.  He stares instead at his hands, cleaned and cuffed now, healed so much more easily that the damage Isaac caused Brent.  He’s trying to find the words to make the sheriff understand; he’s trying to figure out how to speak past the shame that’s got tears burning in his eyes as his throat closes up.

            “Isaac, talk to me,” the sheriff says gently.

            “I’m sorry,” he chokes out finally.  “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I just got so mad and— I didn’t realize—I—I—”

            The sheriff kneels to embrace him, and Isaac tries to pull away, embarrassed. The sheriff hangs on, wrapping his arms around Isaac who then wishes more than anything his hands were free to cling back.  He sobs into the sheriff’s shoulder as the full spectrum of emotion hits him after half an hour sitting here in shock—fury, guilt, worry, confusion, and an exhaustion that reaches down to his bones.  The sheriff only lets go when Isaac’s cried out for the moment, breathing normally again.   Isaac tries to wipe at his face, but it’s not exactly easy with cuffs on.  The sheriff pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and cleans Isaac’s face for him.

            “We’ll figure it out, kiddo,” the sheriff promises, for the first time ever using the nickname he normally reserves just for his son.  “It’s bad, but we’ll figure it out.”

 

 

 


	10. We Never Are What We Intend, Or Invent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/3 of this Arc
> 
> Part 1: Think Something Dark's Living Down in My Heart   
> Part 2: We Never Are What We Intend, Or Invent  
> Part 3: Now I'm Drowning In the Flood I've Made

            “Sheriff?”

            “Hi, Derek. How’s—how’s Stiles?”  
            The man doesn’t sound disinterested, but he sounds distracted; it takes a hell of a lot to distract him from Stiles, and Derek’s already got a bad feeling building when he replies, “Stiles is fine. Is something wrong?”

            “Isaac got in a fight at school,” the sheriff replies.  “I don’t know the whole story yet, not from Isaac anyway, but the damage was pretty bad so—”

            Panic grips tight at Derek’s chest. 

“Is he okay? What the hell—”

“Isaac is fine, but the kid he fought—well they won’t fully know until he wakes up— _if_ he wakes up.”

“If? What the fuck do you mean _if_?!”

“Isaac beat the shit out of him, to be blunt,” the sheriff says.  “It wasn’t some typical school fight.  He’s looking at—it’s—it’s serious.  Jackson had his father at the station by the time they got Isaac here.  He’s looking out for him as best he can legally but we’ve got a serious problem here; best case scenario we’re looking at some serious assault charges, but if the worst happens—”

“I can’t come. I—Stiles is—”

“I know. You stay at the house and manage him.  I’ll keep you updated on Isaac.  I just—I wanted you to hear it from me and not the news.”

“The _news_?”

“There’s only so much we can do to keep it under wraps.  I doubt it goes anywhere farther than the local channels but—it’s violence in schools.  You know how well that attracts viewers.  Just—we’ll do what we can.  We’ll get him out and home as soon as we can.  Be ready to talk to him though. Someone’s got to.  I don’t know what the hell had him snapping like that, but it—there’s something else going on with him. There has to be.”

_No shit, Sherlock._

“Yeah, I’ll—I’ll talk to him.   Hopefully Stiles snaps back soon and—and we’ll get Isaac straightened out and—”

“I gotta go,” the sheriff interrupts.  “I’ll call you later with an update.”

“Okay.”

Derek lays the phone down on the coffee table in front of him with more force than is needed and a crack splits across the screen.

“Dammit,” he curses, kicking at the table.  “Shit. What the _fuck,_ Isaac? What were you—ugh!” he kicks the table again, and catches movement out of the corner of his eye; when he turns, Derek sees Stiles is kneeling.

“Alpha, the—the food is ready if you’d like it,” he says quietly.

“Thank you, Stiles.  I appreciate that. I’m—I’m sorry if I scared you.  I’m not—not angry at you. I’m just—frustrated, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you though; I promise.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“Could you make two plates equal portions and eat one yourself and set one aside for me?  I’m not hungry just yet.”

“Derek, I—I could do something else for you. I—I could try to help you relax if you’ll let me. I know how to—”

“Just go eat please, Stiles.”

“Yes, Derek.”

 

***********************************************************

 

            The food tastes like sawdust after the first few bites, but he continues to shove it in his mouth dutifully.  While Stiles sits here filling himself with food he’s barely earned, the Alpha remains in the den, worry radiating through the air in almost palpable waves. Stiles isn’t sure what’s wrong exactly.  He understands there was a fight, but he can’t see how humans could hold Isaac.  He’s the highest beta in the pack, nearly an acting Second.  Perhaps there are hunters involved? Can’t the Alpha go and get him away?

            _Death is better than capture._

Perhaps the Alpha _won’t_ go and get him.  Perhaps that’s the trouble.  He’s already trying to teach Stiles how to be useful until his memory returns, and now he’s lost another beta.  Two down in less than twenty-four hours, and one of them a potential Second.  Any Alpha would be stressed, but Derek still has two other betas.  Stiles will learn quickly.  The situation isn’t too dire.  Derek shouldn’t have to worry so much.

            _How do I help you relax Derek? How do I make you happy?_

Derek’s said to ask questions.  He says it’s allowed and there’s no punishment. Stiles decides even if that was a trick it’s worth the risk if he has the chance to make Derek’s worry lessen; even if Derek’s angry with him, it’ll distract from the worry a moment.  Stiles walks into the room slowly.  Derek’s in almost the same spot he was, head in his hands, breathing slow and steady like he’s trying to keep a rhythm.

            “Yes, Stiles?” he asks though he doesn’t look up. “Do you have a question?”

            “I—I—I can learn quickly, Derek, and I know I don’t have memories but I still know how to do most things for you—for the pack.”

            “I know, Stiles. You’re a good beta.”

            “Thank you, Derek.  I just—I can do more if you’ll let me.  I can do whatever you need until you find a replacement for Isaac.  I can even help you train the new beta.  I’m good. I’ll help.  I know what to do, Derek. I promise.  I know I seem weak without the memories, but I—”

            “I know you’re not weak,” Derek says.  “I’m not worried about replacing Isaac; we won’t need to replace him, but thank you.”

            “Of course, Derek.”

            “Isaac will be back soon, but it’s—it’s complicated.  He—there was a fight and a human was hurt very badly. It’s just causing some trouble, but we’ll handle it.”

            “I know how to fight, Derek. I’ll make sure no hunters—”

            “I appreciate your loyalty, but there won’t be a fight for him.”

_Then what? What’s wrong? I don’t understand._

“He’s—I’ve told you we follow human instincts more than wolf, right? We try to blend in.”

_And if he hurt a human badly, Isaac flaunted his powers.  He’s drawing unwanted attention.  It puts the pack at risk._

“There will just be some legal complications.  It won’t be a fight, okay?”

“Yes, Derek.”

_Legal? Human laws? You would let them put him in a prison? You would make him stay there? Or just leave him to get away on his own? No, you said he was coming back.  So maybe he won’t be in so much trouble.  Maybe you just want him to play along with the humans?_

“I know you’re confused, Stiles. I’m sorry I can’t explain it better.  Just—did you—you ate already?”

            “Yes, Derek.   I could reheat your lunch, or I can make something else for you if you’d rather have—”

            “Stiles, I appreciate you wanting to help but you don’t have to—you can do what you like with your time now.  You’re free to do what you want until dinner, okay?”

            “Yes, Derek.”

            As he turns to go back to the kitchen, Derek’s words from yesterday replay in his mind: _It’s okay to want things for yourself here.  It’s okay to tell me what you want.  It’s allowed.  I’d like for you to tell me things like that.  Okay?_

            “Derek, I want—”

            Stiles stalls, nerve failing until Derek smiles encouragingly and says, “It’s okay, Stiles.   Tell me.”

“I want you to be happy, Derek. I want to know—to know what I should do—to help.  Can—can I do something for you? Please, Derek? Anything.”

            Derek sighs heavily, like Stiles is only adding to the stress, and Stiles can’t stop a whine.  

            “I’m sorry that I don’t understand what to do.  I—”

            “It’s not your fault, Stiles.”

            “Thank you, Derek.”

            _I really am sorry I can’t remember what to do. I wanted to help not bother you more._

            “Stiles, what if—could you just—come and sit here please?” Derek wonders.

            “Yes, Derek. Of course,” Stiles answers and moves quickly to obey. 

            He sits in the indicated spot next to the Alpha, waiting for further instructions.

            “I’m—I’m not going to hurt you, okay?” Derek promises. “And I’ve told you I don’t want sex, but—but contact helps—it just—it helps, so if—if you don’t mind could we just—”

            Derek moves his hand haltingly toward Stiles’, and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to meet it, hoping he’s reading the sign right, hoping it’s what Derek wants.  Derek relaxes just the slightest bit at the touch, threading his fingers through Stiles’, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the back of Stiles’ hand a time or two.

            “You can—you can let go any time you want,” Derek says.  “I won’t be angry at all.  I promise you.  You’re allowed to let go if you want.”

            “I don’t want to let go, Derek,” Stiles says honestly.

            He brings his other hand to sandwich Derek’s between his palms and because he hopes it will get Derek to relax at least a fraction more.  Derek smiles down at it. 

            “You—you understand I don’t want any kind of sex, right?”

            “Just contact,” Stiles confirms, repeating Derek’s words. “Contact will help?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I want to help, Derek; please let me help.”

            Derek moves his arm, and for a horrible moment Stiles thinks he’s going to pull away.  Instead he trades one hand for the other and brings the newly freed arm up and around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles manages to conceal a flinch as Derek’s arm comes down, but the touch is gentle despite the possessive sign of it.  Stiles forces himself to relax as much as possible, as though the calm could transfer to Derek directly. 

            “Thank you, Stiles,” Derek says wearily.  “I appreciate this.”

            “I don’t mind, Derek,” Stiles assures.  “It—it feels safe,” he adds because Derek’s said dozens of times that he doesn’t want Stiles to be afraid.  “I see how it helps.”

            “I’m glad, Stiles.”

            Derek stares at the television, but it seems to Stiles he’s not really watching.  The longer they’re in contact though, the more the tension in Derek ebbs; Stiles relaxes in suit. It’s impossible not to with the easy, tender, yet possessive touch from the Alpha.  He still can’t believe this really helps, that he’s useful just by sitting here with Derek.  He’ll gladly stay here as long as Derek wants him to; it’s comfortable, and Derek’s right; the contact does seem to calm both of them.

            “We’ll figure it out,” Derek says aloud, and Stiles isn’t sure how to respond.  Derek keeps going though, “Mr. Whittemore will look out for Isaac with the legal stuff.  There—there had to be a good reason for him to start the fight.  They’ll just—they’ll bail him out and get him home and then—then we’ll figure it all out.”

            “Yes, Derek,” Stiles agrees quietly because it seems the thing to say.  “We’ll figure it out,” he parrots.

            “We really must confuse the hell out of you,” Derek says, hand coming up off Stiles’ shoulder to run his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

              _Though he keeps his eyes down, he can feel Peter’s gaze on him, studying him a few moments more before asking, “So you want someone to tell you how to be useful, Stiles?”_

_“Yes, Peter, please.”_

_“You said ‘anything and everything’.”_

_“Anything I can do, Peter,” he assures, lifting his eyes to Peter’s face._

_“Anything?” Peter repeats, and there’s a lascivious glint in his eye that Stiles knows too well to mistake._

_“Yes, Peter.”_

_“If you want to be useful, then I want to help you,” Peter says as he reaches down and cups Stiles’ face in one hand more tenderly that Stiles can ever remember being touched.  He smiles warmly down at Stiles. “Okay?”_

_“Yes, Peter.”_

_“No matter how confusing things are with Derek, this can be simple,” Peter promises, thumb gently brushing Stiles’ lips. “One simple way you can be useful to your pack by fulfilling the need of your Second. No matter how long it takes you to understand how everything else works, this will be one way to keep yourself from being a burden.”_

            “No!” Stiles shouts, shoving the hand in his hair away.  “No, Peter! I’m not! Not a burden! No. No! Loved and useful and kept! I’m loved and useful and kept!! I am! I fucking am! Don’t _touch_ me!”

 

*******************************************

 

            Derek retreats immediately when Stiles freezes under his touch and continues to retreat as Stiles keeps talking.

“You don’t get to fucking touch me! Not ever!” Stiles goes on. 

            He’s got his knees drawn up to his chest, curled in a ball on the sofa now.  His hands are over his ears as they typically are when he’s arguing with an Alpha in his head. 

            _Peter this time? It’s Peter?_

Derek’s stomach twists in a knot of guilt.

            “He can’t hurt you anymore, Stiles,” Derek swears.  “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re useful.”

            “Derek,” Stiles mutters, hands lowering as he slowly opens his eyes.  “Derek,” he says more solidly as he takes in the room.  “I’m—I’m home. I—I—shit, Derek I was at school.  What happened? Did I—”

            “You didn’t hurt anyone,” Derek assures.  “You did _great_ , Stiles.  You got out of the school.   Isaac got you home.  Nothing but a seizure.”

            “Really?” Stiles asks like he can’t believe the luck.   “Really? It—it didn’t like shoot it all to hell?”

            “No.”

            He narrows his eyes.  “Then what’s wrong? You’re frowning.”

            “Just some—some trouble with Isaac, but I don’t know all the details yet.”

“What kind of trouble? He’s okay, right?”

            “He got in a fight with a human,” Derek says.  “They—uh—he should be home soon. We’ll get the whole story then.”

            “Where is he now?”

            “Uh—down at the station.”

            “He got arrested?!”

            “Stiles, calm down.  You just snapped back. Don’t—”

            “Isaac beat up a human bad enough to get himself arrested! There is no such thing as calm right now! Why aren’t you down there?! Dump my regressed ass with Scott! You should be down there. He—he—why would he do that? It’s Isaac! He—”

            “I know, Stiles. I know. Just—I—I can only be so many places, and your dad and Jackson and his dad are with Isaac.   They’re bailing him out. He’ll be home. We’ll—”

            The conversation is interrupted by Derek’s phone ringing.

 

*******************************

 

            “Isaac?” Derek says anxiously as he answers.  “Are you okay?”

            “I’m—uh—out of jail at least,” he replies.  “I’m going to crash with Scott I guess until Stiles—”

            “Stiles is fine; he’s back.”

            “Oh awesome.  I guess—I guess home then.”

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees.  “Isaac, what—”

            “I don’t know,” Isaac replies, and he’s still not sure if it’s true.  “I just snapped.”

            “We’ll talk when you’re home, okay?”

            “Uh huh.  See you soon.”

            Isaac hangs up the phone.  The sheriff’s driving, leaving Isaac with no occupation beyond his own thoughts.

            “So home or Scott’s?” the sheriff asks.

            “Home,” Isaac repliles.  “Stiles is back.”

            “Good.”

            “Uh huh.”

            _Back just in time to deal with my bullshit. That is of course assuming the stress doesn’t bring on another seizure.  Derek sounded exhausted on the phone.  I bet he’s been worried sick since the sheriff called him—on top of trying to take care of Stiles.  Great.  Just fucking great._

_I’m supposed to be the one who holds shit together, not tears it all down._

**************************************************

 

            “I know you want to talk about it,” Isaac says when Dad walks in with him, “but I’m fucking exhausted right now.   I need—I need a minute to get my head on straight, okay? So—”

            “I’ll get them up to speed,” Dad assures. 

            “Thanks,” Isaac replies, retreating back down the hall toward the bedroom.

            “Okay, go,” Stiles demands of his father.  “What happened?”

            “He—snapped,” Dad says simply.  “For lack of a better word.  He’ll have to meet with Morrell or a psychiatrist or someone to get a technical definition of the episode—at least that’s how Jerry Whittemore put it.”

            “So he didn’t know what he was doing?”

            “He knew he was fighting, but he didn’t—the amount of damage he inflicted wasn’t his intent.”

            “How much damage _did_ he do?”

            “We don’t quite know yet, but it—the kid’s in an induced coma, they’re not sure how responsive he’ll be when he does wake.  It’s—”

            “Fucking bad,” Stiles finished for him.  “What the hell would make Isaac do that?”

            Dad hesitates, looking to Stiles before he says, “Well, it doesn’t really matter why so much as—”

            “ _Dad._ ”

            “Apparently Brent had—a video of you.”

            “Of me?” Stiles wonders.  “I don’t—”

            “Of your seizure.”

            “Oh.” 

            Stiles chest clenches unpleasantly.

            _You did this because you were sticking up for me, Isaac? No.  You shouldn’t have to do that._

            “And he posted it and had people watching it in the hall and Isaac—”  Dad shrugs.  “He says he just meant to get the phone away, to throw a punch maybe but not—he wasn’t trying to kill the kid, just shut him up.”

            Stiles can guess from the fury radiating off Derek that Derek _would_ have intended to kill the kid. 

            “So what happens now?” Stiles asks.

            “Well, first we’ve got to wait and see what happens with the Anderson kid. Assault is one thing to fight, but if, God forbid, this kid dies…”

Stiles can’t help gulping at the thought.

_If he dies? What if he dies? What if Isaac fucking killed someone? Jesus Christ.  Of all the things we’ve dealt with. My flashbacks, Derek’s tendency to wrath, and it’s Isaac who may actually have killed someone?_

****************************************************

 

            Isaac means to just sleep or relax when he plops down on the bed, but the werewolf hearing can’t help but tune into the conversation they’re having about him out in the den. 

            “If the worst happens, it’s manslaughter, right?” Derek says.  “It’s not like—murder or something.”

            “Probably not.”

            “ _Probably_?” Stiles demands.  “What the fuck do you mean ‘probably’?”

            _That’s what you’re worried about? My sentence? This kid might die because of me._

“Well, there’s—it seems some kids at the school may have taken videos.  Jackson says—he says Isaac was screaming at Brent, and he said he’d kill him. The prosecution could use that to say—”

            “But he didn’t _mean_ it,” Stiles insists.

            _Didn’t I?_ Isaac wonders.  _I wanted to hurt him as much as I could.  I kept hitting him even though he had to be screaming.  I was out for fucking blood.  What the hell is wrong with me that I could tune out and inflict that kind of damage? That’s fucked up.   I’m fucked up.  God, I’m so fucked up._

_Who was I kidding thinking I was going to be the person who held everything together? Yeah, maybe Derek’s got some issues with his temper.  Stiles has got daunting amounts of trauma to deal with.  I’m just—fucked in the head or something.  This is—it’s not something that came out of a fight to survive or part of a plan or something.  It’s just me, my reaction to something that pissed me off._

_I’m no better than Dad._

_Jesus Christ, I’m not.  I’m really not.  Pissed at life, that Stiles can’t have the normal life he should, and since I can’t fix it, I just beat on the first available target for the fury._

_I’m no fucking better than Dad was._

_That’s why Cam knew he could leave me with Dad for a while.  I could take it because we were the same.  He probably figured I really would fight back—give what I got or more.  He could probably see how fucked up I was._

_Maybe Mom could see it too._

_Maybe that’s why she didn’t think I were worth sticking around for._

_Is that why Derek turned me? Not to save me but because I could be a good weapon? The pack enforcer.  Cold enough to fuck up the enemy.  Maybe that’s what he really saw in me, the fucked up darkness that lets me beat a teenage kid to a pulp with my bear hands and never even flinch._

_I’m no better than Dad._

_Hell, maybe I’m worse._

**************************************************

 

            Derek knows that Isaac’s got to be going crazy with worry, but he only catches the melancholy showing through a couple times over dinner.  Isaac doesn’t eat much, but he never does.  He jokes with them, offers to do dishes since Stiles cooked, he even picks which movie they watch after dinner.  It’s clear Stiles wants to talk it all out, and, in all honesty, Derek would like to hear an explanation form Isaac instead of the minimal one they got from the sheriff.  Derek just can’t quite bring himself to push it though.  All in all he’s a lot better than Derek expected him to be.  Then again, that’s Isaac.  He always manages to keep it together somehow.  He’s a fucking rock, and Derek doesn’t want to rock the boat any more than needed.

            “Are you really okay, Isaac?” Stiles wonders, apparently out of quiet patience.

            “I mean, I’m as okay as I can be, ya know?” he replies.  “I wish I knew what happened, but I think—I think maybe it was just a fluke? Like—too much stress maybe.  I bet talking with Morrell will help, and we’ll take care of Brent’s bills and just—I can’t believe what I did, but—I don’t know.  I just—I’m dealing,” Isaac says.

            “Well, let us know if—ya know—we can do something,” Derek offers.  “Or—if—if you wanna talk or something.”

            _“When_ you want to talk,” Stiles corrects.  “I swear it helps, dude.  Even the shit you don’t understand, it just—cheesy as it sounds, talking helps.”

            “I know, but not—not tonight.”

 

***************************************************

 

 

_Conscious._

_With more surgeries they’re confident they can reconstruct the facial bones._

_Some permanent brain damage._

The words echo in Isaac’s head as he rushes out the back door, sick to his stomach with tears coursing down his face.

            _This isn’t what I meant to happen.  I just meant to shut him up.  I fucked him up for life.  What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell kind of monster am I? Stiles was trained for months to attack ruthlessly and he holds it in? What’s my excuse? There is no excuse, not for this.  Not for losing my fucking mind and nearly killing a teenager._

He runs without thinking.  He just has to get away, has to do something to lessen the terror and shame and guilt hammering so constantly at his mind.  He shifts the moment he’s in the trees, running blindly until he doesn’t even have the strength to run any more.  He shifts back to human and walks instead; he thinks he’s heading home, barely paying attention to where his feet carry him, until suddenly he’s looking up at the Argent home.

            _Why would I come here?_

But the answers already there, swirling in the dark depths of his mind.  He follows the desperate desire, sneaking around to the back of the house, breaking into the back window, making sure he’ll catch at least one of the hunters off guard.

 

 ******************************************************************************

Isaac’s exhausted.  It’s not the time to pick a fight with a well-trained hunter, but he’s still got advantages that Allison doesn’t.  He draws blood with his strikes more than once, but it’s not long before she’s rending his flesh as well. 

“What the hell are you waiting for?!” he thunders when she pins him for the third time but doesn’t go for the kill; even he can hear the way the words are almost a wail.

_I’m losing it. I’m losing my fucking mind. Just get it over with.  I’m fucking tired of the charade.  Come on, Allison._

            “You could have killed me at least twice already; you didn’t,” she says, though her hold on him never loosens and her dagger stays tights against his throat.

            “Just _do it,_ Allison.”

            “Isaac, you know I can’t.”

            “You have to. It’s your job. It’s the code, just fucking _do it!”_

            “It wasn’t your fault. You snapped. You didn’t mean it. You—”

            “I nearly killed him! I left him fucked up for life! I beat the shit out of him. I heard what they’ve said. He was screaming, and I didn’t stop! Something is wrong with me! Do you get that? What if it happens again? What if—”

            “Isaac—”

            “So keep to the code, and get rid of the threat.”

            _Get rid of the threat. Get rid of this guilt and fury and—all of it; just get rid of it.  I need it to all go away.  I can’t be like him if I’m dead.  The darkness can’t win if I’m dead. It can’t hurt Derek or Stiles or the pack or anyone.  I can’t worry about keeping it in check on top of everything else.  I can’t.  I’m stretched too thin already. I just—I can’t do more.  It’s just got to be done; it’s the best option.  Get rid of the threat; kill the darkness.  Let it be done._

            “ _Isaac—”_

“I don’t know what made me snap this badly! I don’t know how to control it! It’s worse than Stiles. It’s your job is to protect innocent people from monsters like me.  Come on, you know I’m right.  You know I’m not safe; an uncontrollable wolf can’t be safe.  It’ll get worse from here.  I’m going to hurt someone again if you don’t stop me.”

            “I can’t fucking slit your throat, Isaac.”

            “Yes, you can. I know you can.  You’re a hunter, an Argent.  You know what I’m asking you to do makes sense.”

            She hesitates, still studying him with pained, pitying eyes.

            _God I wish it has been your Dad who walked in.  We wouldn’t have this problem.  I know I’m asking too much, but you’ve got to help me because no one in the pack can, and I can’t do this myself.  I’m not going to stick around and make everything harder on Derek and Stiles. They have enough without dealing with the fact I’ve boarded the crazy train.  I want them protected. I want to help them, and I can’t if I’m losing my mind.  I’m more hurt than help, and I’m not making them take on more than they already have. I can’t handle this; I can’t.  But I won’t make them handle it for me.  This is the easiest way.  The best solution.  Please, Allison, just help._

“I can’t watch you die like that, but there’s—there’s wolfsbane,” she says quietly, “some of the tranquilizer darts have lethal doses.”

            Isaac didn’t expect the relief to be quite so complete, but he could practically sob at the reprieve from the weight on his soul as she agrees to his plan.  The idea that all this chaos swirling around him for _so_ fucking long will be gone. _Soon._

No more brave faces. No more worrying himself sick over everything. No more fighting down the anger and the frustration and the dejection. Just—just some peace.

_Finally._

            “Really?” he wonders.

            “Yes.”

            “Don’t fuck with me, Allison, please. I can’t—”

            “My mother didn’t want to live like this,” she replies somberly.  “She didn’t want to risk losing control to hurt people, so she made sure she couldn’t.  If you want the same thing, I’ll help you.  You said it yourself, it’s my responsibility.”           

“They can’t know I—”

_Gave up.  They can’t know I hit the limit.  They can’t.  They’ll blame themselves, and they shouldn’t.  It’s not their fault I can’t hack it.  It’s not their fault I didn’t see the breaking point coming up so fast._

 “They have to think my control was gone—that I was too far gone to be saved— _completely_ out of my mind, fucking rabid or something.”

She nods in agreement. 

“I understand,” she tells him, eyes sad, and he hates himself in this moment for putting this on her, for making her step up because he can’t, for dredging up her mother’s death, for the chaos that will rain down on her and Chris when the pack finds out.       

 “I’ll tell them you were rabid when I got here,” she continues, voice carefully even as she formulates the plan.

She’s the matriarch to the Argent family now.  Isaac has seen in the past year how much her innocence has waned; as sad as he is for all she’s been through like the rest of them, it makes her strong enough to help him now.

_I’ll take “fucked up silver linings” for 800, Alex._

“There’s enough damage in here to corroborate that story,” she reasons.  “I can do a little more once you’re taken care of.  It’ll be a solid story by the time they come.”

“Call—call Scott or Jackson,” Isaac says.  “Don’t make Derek and Stiles—”

“Okay,” she agrees. 

“Thank you,” Isaac says earnestly, voice cracking as the tears that have been brimming finally fall from his eyes. 

 “Come on, get up,” she instructs.  “We have to go get one of the darts, and I’m not letting you out of my sight at this point.”

Isaac follows her out to the armory wall in the garage.  It’s an impressive array to be sure.  He wonders if a gun wouldn’t be faster.

_Messier too.  She’s right.  The poison will be easiest for her.  It’s the least you can do; be as little trouble right now as you can._

The silver of the needle on the dart gleams in the fluorescent light as she pulls it from the case.  She takes a deep breath as she studies it.

“You’re absolutely positive?” she wonders.  “You don’t want to leave them a note or something?”

“They can’t know I wanted this.  They _can’t_.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sure,” Isaac says firmly, turning his head to bare his throat.

He knows it’s the right choice when none of his instincts scream to fight back as she moves to push the needle in.  The burn starts in his neck and the fire spreads out through his veins.  The pain lessens soon enough though, giving way to a numbness.  She catches him as he falls, lowering him to the cold concrete of the garage floor.  He tries to speak, to thank her again for doing what he couldn’t on his own, but his mouth won’t cooperate.

“Shh,” she tells him when the garbled noise comes out.  “You’re okay, now, Isaac.  I got you.”

He smiles at her, since the words didn’t work, and she smiles back sadly.  His vision starts to blur, and he closes his eyes and gives himself up to blessed oblivion. 


	11. Now I'm Drowning in the Flood I've Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for suicide/depression

 

 

            Isaac’s been gone a long time now, and the worry is starting to creep into Derek’s mind.  If anyone understands the need for a good run to clear your head, it’s Derek, but this is getting a little extreme.  Stiles is flitting around the house, busying himself with tidying and cooking and making up a grocery list; the constant movement is hell on Derek’s nerves, but he knows it probably helps Stiles so he says nothing. 

            Derek’s phone rings from the counter, and he swipes it up immediately. 

            “Is that him?” Stiles wonders.

            “Allison Argent,” Derek replies confusedly.

            “Oh, shit, you don’t think he—he wouldn’t get in another fight, right? It’s—it’s probably just—”

            “Something wrong, Argent?” Derek asks, answering the phone before it goes to voicemail.

            “I have Isaac.”

            “If you so much as—”

            “He’s okay—physically at least.”

“Put him on the phone.”

“He’s sedated at the moment.”

“What?!”

“I think maybe you should call Morrell.”

            “Why? What the fuck happened?”

            “He just tried to go for suicide-by-hunter.”

            “No, no way.  What did you—”

            “He broke in the back, started fighting me, and when I pinned him he asked me to kill him.  He made me promise not to tell you two, but obviously—”

            “There’s—he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—”

            “Derek, I’ve got absolutely no interest in fucking with you right now.  We both know there was more than enough shit going on in Isaac’s life to corroborate a situation like this even _before_ he nearly beat a kid to death.  I’m trying to help you out here. I’m bringing him home safe, okay? I’m not trying to pull anything over on you.”

            “Yeah, yeah, okay. Whatever.  Just get him home.”

            The line goes dead as she hangs up.  Derek turns to Stiles who looks like he might be sick.  Derek knows the feeling.

            “What—he—we—Derek—Derek, he— _Derek_ —” Stiles stutters like Derek has some kind of answer for what the hell is happening.

            _This can’t be real.  It can’t be.  Isaac’s a fucking rock.  Isaac holds it together better than anybody.  Isaac’s unbreakable._

            _But apparently not._

_**************************************************_

 

            _Suicide?_

_Suicide by hunter._

_How fucking dare you, Isaac?_

“I don’t want to talk to him yet,” Stiles mutters, not even sure how to start sifting through the chaotic rush of thoughts stirring in his mind.  “I can’t—I—you’re mad and he’s—and I—I’ll be downstairs, okay? I just—or if—if you need me I can stay, I can,” he offers, realizing how unfair it is to ask Derek to handle the initial conversation alone and yet praying he shoulders the weight.

            “No, probably better for you to at least be in the other room,” Derek agrees. 

            The confusion and worry in Derek’s eyes is steadily giving way to fury, and Stiles wonders if he could stay around even if he wanted to.  Stiles barely takes in the trip upstairs to “his” room.  He’s shared with Derek and Isaac from the moment the house was built, so his bedroom is more a crazy office of sorts and a catchall for his junk.  Now it’s going to have to be his sanctuary for an hour or two. 

            _How fucking dare you?_

***************************************************

 

 

            _I’m not dead.  I’m breathing.  Everything aches._

_I’m not dead._

_Fuck._

_God-fucking-dammit, Allison._

_Shit.  I’m probably home.  Oh, God, Derek and Stiles._

_Fuck._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He opens his eyes slowly, fighting back tears of frustration and disappointment already. 

            _I wanted to be done, not have even more to deal with._

“Isaac?”

            Derek’s voice is worried. Isaac turns his head to see that Derek’s sitting in the loveseat across from the sofa.  Isaac can’t quite read the look on Derek’s face, but it seems to him Derek’s trying too hard to breathe evenly.

            “I’m sorry,” Isaac says in response. 

            “What the hell happened?”

            “I just—” he closes his eyes trying to find the words, but there’s no way to describe this, this darkness and exhaustion and weight and overwhelming dejectedness that seems like it’s crushing him.  “I’m sorry,” he says again since the explanation won’t come.

            “Allison Argent says you asked her to kill you,” Derek says; his voice is measured and calm, but Isaac can only guess at the storm brewing within. 

            _She tricked me._

_This was supposed to be simple and quick and over._

_I was going to be done._

“Yes,” Isaac replies because honestly what’s the point in lying; he hasn’t got the strength to bother with keeping up a ruse, not to mention the hell Derek would raise if he thought Allison fabricated the story.

            “Yes? Isaac—”

            “It’s just—too much,” Isaac confesses, and the words are horribly deficient.

            “Too much?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Too much,” Derek repeats.  “It’s too much, and so you run to a hunter and ask her to put you down.  What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

            Isaac doesn’t reply, just turns from looking at Derek and stares up at the ceiling again.  He’s not entirely sure he’s ever going to conjure the energy to sit up again, and he wishes it were only due to the residual effects of the sedative Allison must have given. 

            “Look at me!” Derek commands.  “Talk to me, dammit! You can talk to Argent but not to me?”

            “It’s not—she didn’t,” Isaac says.  “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine,” Isaac lies, already mapping out new plans, wondering which will be quick and effective while sparing Derek and Stiles as much as he can.  “I said I was sorry,” he adds in the silence, as though it makes up for something. 

            _I’m sorry she didn’t go through with it.  I’m sorry you know how fucked up I am.  I’m sorry I’m dragging you in with me._

“Sorry?! You’re _sorry_?!  A hunter brought you home, Isaac!” Derek thunders, swiping at the stacks of books and magazines on the coffee table and sending the piles toppling to the floor; Isaac barely even flinches.  “A _hunter_ carried your unconscious body over and laid you in my arms! Do you know what that was like? Do you have _any_ idea? Already losing my shit over the case against you, and worrying if you’ll get jail time for sticking up for Stiles, who, by the way, might end up in a regression any minute, and then you _choose_ to try and take yourself away from me? from us? What the hell were you thinking? How could you do that? _How_?!”

            _I should reply.  I should say something.  What do I say? How could I explain it? I can’t, Derek.  I don’t know how to make you understand._

            “I cannot lose you,” Derek says, anger draining from his voice as he comes closer and slumps onto the end of the couch.  “I can’t,” he repeats, bringing a hand to turn Isaac’s face toward him.

            “I didn’t mean—you weren’t supposed to find out that—I just—I didn’t want to—I don’t know what to say to you,” Isaac replies, eyes meeting Derek’s in the hopes he’ll see something Isaac can’t find words for.  “I don’t know what you want me to say.  I just—wanted to be done.”

            Derek’s face crumples at the words.  He brushes his fingers through Isaac’s hair a few times before he speaks again.

            “I shouldn’t put so much on your shoulders,” Derek tells him apologetically. “Stiles’ trauma and my bullshit issues and the dynamic between us.  You shouldn’t be the one who has to deal with it. It’s—”

            “Derek, this isn’t your fault.”

            _I know guilt is your kneejerk reaction, but this isn’t your fault.   It isn’t about you._

            “Tell me how to help you,” he begs, face tear-streaked and _wrecked_ now that the wrath is waning.  “What you need to—to keep going because so help me God, Isaac, I will do whatever—”

            “It’s not your job to drag me with you.”

            “Yes, it is. I fucking love you, Isaac.  You—we—we called dibs right? You can’t check out early.  I want you with me—with us.”

            “Derek—”

            “Whatever you need,” Derek says, “just—tell me how to help you.”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Is it—the trial? Because you know a prison can’t hold you.  We’ll run if we have to.  You won’t—”

            “Stop it.”

            _Stop trying to guess it.  Stop talking like it’s one simple problem to rectify or explain away.  Just stop._

            “Tell me why,” Derek says.  “What did you want to be done with? School? People? Us?”

            His voice breaks on the last word and his misery only adds to the weariness in Isaac’s soul.

            “Please just stop,” Isaac says.  

            “I need to understand—”

            “Well, this isn’t fucking about you, is it?!”

            The bitter outburst slips from Isaac’s lips before he can silence it.  Derek looks like he’s been slapped.

            “I just—”

            “If I knew how to talk about it, if I knew how to put it into words or how to make it better, don’t you think I would have found another option?!” Isaac demands; there’s more venom in his words than he means there to be, but he keeps going anyway.

            _You want to talk? I’ll fucking talk.  But don’t get pissed at me when it doesn’t lead to some heartfelt conversation that makes everything look brighter._

“I don’t know what the hell to do anymore,” Isaac goes on.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t even know where to start trying to explain, I just—I’m _tired,_ Derek, and the—the only reasons I had for not ending it sooner were you and Stiles and just—I love you, you know that.  I know you fucking know that but it—it’s not—it wasn’t—it wasn’t enough anymore, and I’m sorry, but it—I just wanted to be done and stop worrying and fighting and planning and struggling and just—you two would be okay—things are better than they used to be; you could do it without me—and I just—I wanted some peace for once in my fucking life, and we both know that’s the only way I’ll really ever get it; we both know damn well there’s no peace in this fucking life, not for any of us.  I can’t take all of this.  There’s too much, and I’m too fucking broken and just—I’m _tired._ ” 

He closes his eyes with the last words, unable to bear staring at Derek’s aggrieved expression anymore.

            _I know you’re entitled to feel betrayed by this.  This is why I didn’t want them to know I asked Allison for help._

He wants to try to make Derek see how much better it could’ve been if it’d just gone according to plan—however desperate he may have been when he went through with it.  But just the _idea_ of discussing it, much less trying to find the words and watch Derek react to them, is so incredibly arduous that Isaac can’t face it.

“I can—I’ll call Morrell,” Derek offers.  “Maybe she can—she helped Stiles so—would you—would you talk to her?”

“Not today,” Isaac says.  “Please?”

“Then what am I supposed to do, Isaac?”

“Nothing.  Stop trying to fix it.”

“Please, Isaac. Tell me something to help.  _Anything_.”

“Stop it. You sound like Stiles.”

“Isaac—”

“Leave me the fuck alone for thirty goddamn seconds!” Isaac shouts.  “That’s what you can do! There are things you can’t fucking fix, and I’m not going to pretend that talking helps when _nothing_ helps so stop it and get the fuck away from me!”

There’s a long, tense silence before Derek sighs deeply.

“Okay,” he acquiesces.   “I’ll—uh—be out back I guess—if you—if you need me.”

“Thanks,” Isaac murmurs quietly as Derek’s footsteps retreat.

            _Sorry I’m not strong enough for this shit.  You deserve more than thing, but I don’t think I have anything left to give you._

_It’ll be better soon though.  You won’t have to worry about me much longer.  I’ll find another way._

****************************************************

 

            Stiles hears every word Derek and Isaac exchange.  He didn’t intend to listen, but he was a snoop before the werewolf senses made it so damn easy.  He understands both sides of the struggle raging between the two of them.  It dredges up a melancholy he’s tried to keep buried for so long, but the indignation the situation draws to the surface overshadows it. 

            _Seriously, Isaac? How dare you? You think I didn’t want to end it a million times? You think I haven’t thought out dozens of ways to make it look like an accident? I want peace too; I want to be done. I’m tired. I’m pissed.  I’m afraid.  I’m fucking sick with worry all the time it seems.  I hate living like this. I hate coping with all the damage that won’t ever go away completely._

_But I don’t give in to the urge to give up._

_So what do you think gives you the right?_

_If I can’t quit, you can’t quit._

_If anyone deserves to be done, it’s me.  If anyone “checks out early”, it should be me.  How fucking dare you, Isaac?_

It’s a selfish way to look at it, but, honestly, Stiles doesn’t care.  It’s the truth.  He knows damn well Derek and Isaac could get along just fine without him once they put the initial sadness behind them.  They could get along a hell of a lot better than Derek and Stiles without Isaac.  As the fury continues to boil in his veins, Stiles takes a swing at the punching bag, suddenly repentant of all those jabs at Jackson and Derek for insisting they install a gym suited for werewolf workouts in the basement.  He _hates_ the clarity and calm that come from the slight ache in his knuckles, but he swings again anyway because the calm and clarity is what he needs if he’s going to be any fucking use at all with this.

            _I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do for him.  I can’t tell him how I really feel about it.  I can’t fix it; there’s no fixing shit like that.  It stays and you learn to deal with it._

_I learned to deal with it._

_But I don’t know if I can deal with mine and Isaac’s.  I don’t know if I can help save him without us both drowning.  We’ll take Derek down with us too._

_Fuck._

_Where the fuck do we go from here?_

_Maybe I’ll stay at Dad’s for a while._

*******************************************************

 

            Derek’s at a total loss for what to do.  It’s yet another moment in which he’s reminded how infuriatingly ineffective he is at sifting through emotions rather than just shoving them to the back of his mind.  He doesn’t know how to talk to Isaac.  He doesn’t even know how to start.  Stiles hasn’t peeked his head out of the basement, but Derek can hear him beating the hell out of the bag down there. 

            _Great.  So he’s—pissed? I guess? I don’t know.  I don’t even fucking know._

_What am I supposed to do?_

_What the fuck am I supposed to do?_

_What are we gonna do?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't the end of Isaac's (and Stiles' and Derek's) issues here, but it's the end to the immediate arc. Next time we hear from them will be a week or two from this moment, but I dunno if that'll be the next thing I post 'cause honestly this is heavy shit and both Stiles and Isaac are my voice made to fit characters. I might take a breather before I tackle their therapy bits and write some other fluffier chapter; thanks in advance for the patience. :) 
> 
> As a bit of a PSA, if you ever have times your struggling, there are ways to get help. If you feel you are in a crisis, whether or not you are thinking about killing yourself, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). People call for help with substance abuse, economic worries, relationship and family problems, sexual orientation, illness, getting over abuse, depression, mental and physical illness, and even loneliness.


	12. White Knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse at the aftermath of Isaac's break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> approximately two weeks after ch. 11
> 
> Title from the OK GO song that my bestie put as the first track on my "keep calm and sing on" CD last time I hit the bottom :)

            Isaac doesn’t get better within a day or two.

            He isn’t back to his old self in a week.

            But he’s improving, and Derek takes the little bit of hope the improvement sparks and manages to hold himself together.  It’s not altogether different from what it was like to have Stiles admit he needed to talk to Morrell without the others, but at least with Stiles Derek had a little warning; he’d been braced for turbulence, however unpredictable Stiles issues may have been.  With Isaac, until two weeks ago when he broke, Derek had no fucking idea that the normal, content Isaac he saw day-to-day was slowly withering away under the fear and fury that Isaac was keeping hidden away. 

It makes Derek feel like a failure as an Alpha, a friend, and a husband that he couldn’t see it when Isaac changed.  He’s doing everything he can to make up for it though. Being quietly supportive since Isaac doesn’t want to talk about most of it, nudging Isaac to engage in pack stuff even if Isaac doesn’t seem to have an interest in it at all, helping Stiles plan out some of Isaac’s favorite meals to coax him to eat more than a bite or two at dinner.  It’s painstakingly slow it seems, but it’s something.

_I’m not giving up on him. Not ever.  He’ll be happy again.  He fucking deserves to be happy after all the hell he’s been through.   I’ll get him there.  Me and Stiles and the pack.  We’ll all get him there.  We will._

*************************************************************

 

            “You seem less frustrated than last time we spoke,” Morrell comments as she comes in to sit down on her side of the mountain ash. 

            “You mean less furious?” Stiles corrects with a tad more bitterness in his voice than he intended.  “Yeah, guess so.”

            “So you’re managing your anger with Isaac well enough then.”

            “Well enough I don’t want to strangle him anymore,” Stiles replies.  “I think that was just the initial reaction, ya know? To the whole crazy thing.  Once you see—I mean he’s—he can’t help that—I was an asshole,” Stiles says, huffing laughter out with the self-deprecating deflection.

            “Stiles, it does not make you a bad person to think what you’ve been through was an unimaginable, traumatizing horror—”

            “But the severity of my trauma does not negate or lessen Isaac’s own issues or make them any easier to cope with,” Stiles interrupts, repeating her words from last session before she can.

            There’s so much truth in the words that he’s almost embarrassed she had to remind him of the principal.  Yeah sure, after everything Stiles went through, no one would have been that surprised if he tried for the easy way out—hell they were scared that was what he went for with the sedative—but that doesn’t mean that Isaac is any less entitled to feel overwhelmed by his own issues.  Abuse, losing his parents, losing Cam, being turned, Erica, Boyd, and now everything that’s happened with Stiles—it’s a wonder he didn’t break sooner. It was just so easy to assume he was doing fine when that was the way he appeared to the world.  He didn’t have involuntarily tells like Stiles’ or masking tells like Derek’s anger.  Isaac just always seemed on such an even keel that Stiles assumed he had an easier time dealing.

            _What a fucking ignorant, jackass assumption.  The hell is wrong with me?_

“I don’t—I don’t know how to help him cope, though,” Stiles admits.  “I mean it’s like—like the guilt stuff with Derek but a billon times worse because Derek’s not going to off himself—of course I didn’t exactly _expect_ Isaac to either.  Fuck. Maybe everyone around me wishes they could tap out, and I’ve got my head too far up my own ass to notice.”

            “I doubt that’s true. You’re quite perceptive about a lot of things,” Morrell says kindly. “You can’t blame yourself for what Isaac chose; you just have to be as understanding as you can as he tries to recover.”

            “Easier said than done.”

            “Oh?”

            “There’s nothing to do, not really, just little stuff, and it seems like it takes forever. I’ve never been good on patience. It’s—I got a new appreciation for them patiently waiting for me to get my shit together in those first months back from the Alphas. That’s for damn sure.  Maybe that’s why Derek’s so much better at this than me.”

            “Derek’s better?”

            “I think it helps maybe that he’s better with the physical and not the verbal.  He’s got this personality that makes him the quiet anchor when you need him to be.  I just—stir stuff up, I dunno.  I can’t be calm enough; I just—I feel like I did when mom was—”

            He chokes of the sentence, realizing what he was about to say, wishing he could take the words back.

            “Like you felt when your mom was dying?”

            He purses his lips, looking out the window as he nods, trying desperately to push away the memories the statement brings back.  It doesn’t work; they’re there in his mind’s eye like it was yesterday: bright blue scarf around her head in stark contrast with her pale and waning face, smile on her lips contradicting the pain in her eyes, the god-awful tangle of tubes and machines around her in a room that always seemed to be closing in on them.

            “And what’s that feeling like?”

            He takes a deep breath, trying to focus on happier memories of Mom instead, wishing more than anything he never saw the shell of herself she became in the end because it’s going to haunt him forever.

            “Stiles?” Morrell prods.  “Can you tell me about it?

            “It’s—smothering? But like—like panic attack smothering because I don’t—what am I supposed to do when I always feel like—like me being me—just that I’m moving and talking and too fucking hyper—is overload for him.  Like it’s exhausting just to be around me, and I try to talk or do something fun with him to help, ya know? Try to get him to smile or forget or something, but it’s—it’s like I leave him wearier than when I started instead of perking him up. So then it seems like it’d be better if I just left him the hell alone, ya know? Let him rest up or deal or whatever. But I don’t want to just do nothing, so I keep talking and doing stuff and wearing him out because it makes _me_ feel better to be helping. Fucking selfish but—I don’t—I don’t know what to do, and I guess—I just don’t want to make it all worse. I swear I always end up making things worse for people.”

            “You didn’t wear her out, Stiles,” Morrell soothes, “and you’re not wearing Isaac out either. You have an incredible energy about you, and it’s a positive thing, a brightness. We can all use a little more brightness on our worst days.”

            He wishes he believed her so he nods like he does.  In actuality Stiles is pretty damn sure his incessant hyperactivity is just another burden he casts on the people around him.  If it’s a “brightness”, it’s the concentrated sun that leaves your skinned burned, not a gentle warming glow.  He’s too much, and he knows it; he just can’t ever seem to figure out how to tone it down consistently.

            “Derek’s show of support combines with yours and your pack’s and everyone else’s, and it’s that blend that Isaac needs. It’ll help.  Don’t think your efforts are useless; just the fact that you care enough to try means a great deal, I’m sure.”

            “Hopefully,” Stiles replies with a frown.  “Not like I know what the fuck else to do.”

            “Be patient; be present,” she tells him, “Just be there.”

 

************************************************************

 

            “Better day?” Morrell asks as Isaac sits down. 

            It’s part of the mindset he’s supposed to be striving for: each day better than the one before; even if they’re not “good” they can still be “better”.

            “Yeah,” he answers honestly.  “Pretty good.”

            “I heard Lydia planned a pack picnic yesterday.  How was that?”

            “Did Stiles tell you that?”

            “He mentioned it, yes.”

            “Does he talk to you about me?” Isaac wonders before realizing. “That’s a dumb question.  Of course he does.”

            _Bet he vents to you.  Hope it helps.  Maybe it does.  He’s seemed less pissed at me lately._

“It doesn’t matter what Stiles and I discuss,” she reminds.  “This time is for you, Isaac, and what you and I talk about.”

            “Right.”

            She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t know what to say any more than he ever does. 

            “So the picnic,” she prods.  “Did you enjoy yourself?”

            “Yeah, it was good. I just—everything feels fake now.”

            “Fake?”

            “They all know how fucked up I am.  They know even when I’m trying to push and be happy I’m mostly blowing smoke and putting on a show, hoping something sticks.”

            _I can’t mask the monsters anymore. They know. They know I’d rather just be done, and hanging out with the pack is just a decent second since I failed to off myself._

“Does it help?” she wonders.  “Putting on a smile and getting out of the house or spending time with your pack?”

            “Sometimes.”

            “Then you’re not just faking; you’re genuinely trying, and that’s a very big difference even if it may not feel like it.”

            “I just—” Isaac stops, hating how he can never figure out how to express all the darkness swirling around in him that constantly threatens to overtake everything. “I wish I was doing it for me, not for them.”

            “That’s understandable,” she allows with an empathetic smile he wants to smack off her face.  “Although, if doing things for them helps you take a step forward, that’s something for you to hold onto until you find a reason to live for yourself.”

            “You keep saying that, but I really don’t think I’m going to find one—not a healthy one anyway.”

            “What’s kept you going in the past?” she wonders.

            This is the part where Isaac usually cuts off the conversation. She wants him to talk about his fucked up childhood and high school years.  He wants to forget most of it ever happened. 

            “What was your anchor for the shift?” she asks in the silence, trying a different approach. “You barely knew Derek, so I doubt it was your pack. What did you try to use to keep your control?”

            “My dad,” he replies quietly, studying the fading patterns on the carpet, looking anywhere but at Morrell.

            “What about your dad?”

            She probably expects something akin to Derek’s anger control, but it’s not that simple. It would all be so much easier if Dad had always been a total asshole. Thing is, he didn’t used to be.

            “He—uh—he used to do this thing with me and Cam when we’d get scared or nervous or whatever,” Isaac reveals.  “He’d put his hands on my shoulders and tell me to close my eyes, and then—then he’d say to think the opposite of the fear. Ya know, like when it was being scared of the dark I’d repeat, ‘Nothing’s going to get me,’ or before I went up to bat at ball games it was, ‘I can knock it out of the park,’ shit like that.  Deep breath, say the sentence, deep breath, say the sentence, deep breath, say the sentence, and then—if I believed it hard enough it’d be true.”  In the silence that follows Isaac wishes he hadn’t tried to explain.  “Sounds even dumber when I try to explain it out loud—just—it—I dunno, I was like three the first time he did it, and he was my dad, ya know? Dad knew everything. Dad could take care of everything.  So I just—I mean, you know when you’re little you think everything they say has to be true, so I just—”

            “You trusted what he taught you.  That’s not dumb, Isaac.”

            _It’s not?_

            “It’s not a bad coping technique,” she continues.  “Most parents have a way to try and teach their children to conquer their fears.”

            “Yeah, until you’re eleven, locking yourself in the bathroom repeating, ‘Dad won’t really hurt me. Dad won’t really hurt me,’ while he beats on your big brother,” Isaac spits bitterly, and the harsh words are out of his mouth before he even fully realizes what he’s saying.

            “That must have been difficult for you,” Morrell says, stating the obvious.

            Isaac shrugs it off. “We got by. He wasn’t—I mean he was bad, sure, but he knew when to stop. We never—never, like, needed the hospital or anything.”

            “Like Brent needed the hospital after the fight?” she wonders.

            His eyes snap up to meet hers, and he realizes she’s got a damn good idea of what really fucked Isaac up about everything that happened at school.

            “It wasn’t a _fight_ ,” Isaac corrects, “I beat the shit out of a kid who couldn’t fight me back, not really.”

            “Like your father did with you and Camden?”

            “But Dad knew when to stop,” Isaac emphasizes.  “He—he’d be drunk as hell sometimes, pissed beyond all reason, but he—he never did anything like what I did to Brent.  Hell, no one even knew what was going on at our house.”

            “You’re not like your father, Isaac.”

            “No,” he agrees. “I’m even worse!”

            “You—”

“I was okay after the shit Dad pulled; I got some nightmares and claustrophobia issues out of it, but that’s not so uncommon. I fucked Brent up for life—nearly blind in one eye, dental reconstruction, plates in his face so he doesn’t look like fucking Quasimodo, no contact sports, potential for seizures! What the fuck is so wrong with me that I—”

“Your mind reached a breaking point; every person has one.  It doesn’t mean—”

“I’m a goddamn monster, and you know it! Derek and Stiles know it! The whole pack knows it! I’m fucking dangerous, but no one wants to stop me!” Isaac rages, rising to his feet.  “I can’t—I won’t be like him! I won’t let how screwed up I am fuck up other people’s lives! I won’t! I will rip out my own goddamn throat before I—”

“Isaac!” she shouts, startling him out of the rant.  “Listen to what you’re saying,” she urges.

“What?”

“You recognize that there is a problem; you don’t want to hurt anyone; you want to make things better for the people around you,” she says.

“Exactly, and the best thing for them is if I just—”

“You are dealing with this in the exact opposite way as your Dad.  It’s proving how _dis_ similar you are. Can you see that?”

He stares at her, confused as to how she can possibly have arrived at that conclusion when he’s just reminded her of the hell he rained down on Brent Anderson.

“Yes, you let your anger manifest in a way that went too far,” she concedes, “the same way that your dad allowed his grief and frustrations to fuel the harm he did to you and Camden. The difference is that he let it get worse.  He tried to vent his rage on you and your brother to help himself. You’re trying to harm yourself to help others.  You’re not the same as your father; you’re the exact opposite.  Do you see what I’m saying to you?”

Isaac’s mouth gapes open as he stares.

“You’re not becoming him,” she continues as Isaac sinks back down into the armchair behind him, knees feeling suddenly weak.  “You’re your own person, Isaac; a young man who has been through some of the most horrible things imaginable who wasn’t able to handle it in a healthy way. That’s perfectly understandable.  It’s something that can be worked on and dealt with. You’re not some feral monster; you’re a steadfast, passionate, good person. You just have some skeletons in the closet like everybody else.”

“But I don’t—I thought I was fine until I was staring down at his blood on my hands.  I can’t fix it if I don’t know why I snapped when I did.”

“That’s what I’m here for, to help you understand what led to that point, to help prevent it happening again. It’s a process, and it’ll take time, but you can get better, Isaac, so much better than you think. I promise you.”

_Really? Could I really?_

 

*************************************************************

 

            Isaac gets home from his session with Morrell looking like he ran a marathon.  Derek can’t help tensing at the sight of him, resisting the urge to call Morrell and curse her out for pushing too hard; he’s nearly half an hour late and Derek wonders what they talked about for all that time.

            “How’d it go?” Stiles asks tentatively.

            _Look at him. You really need to ask?_ Derek wonders.

            To his surprise, Isaac smiles, small but genuine.

            “Intense,” he says, “but it was like a good kind of intense, ya know?”

            There’s a change, slight but undeniable, and Derek’s spirits soar as the knot of tension that’s been clenched in his chest since the day he carried Isaac’s unconscious form in the house loosens _just_ slightly. 

            _Tide’s finally turning?_ Derek wonders, hope building.  _Please fucking let it be turning._

            “That’s awesome,” Stiles says with a wide grin. “I’m glad.”

            “Yeah, me, too,” Isaac plops down on the sofa beside Stiles, settling in close to him more naturally than he’s interacted with any of them in days. “Hey, we should order Chinese for dinner,” Isaac suggests, the first interest in food he’s shown in what seems forever. “I would pay big bucks for some decent crab rangoon right now.”

            Derek knows there’s a smile on his face that has to look dopey, but he can’t help it. 

            _He’s gonna be okay. We’re all gonna be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I know it's kinda short, but I always feel inept when I try to convey what it's like to be rock bottom because it's really hard to get unless you've been there. Hopefully it's enough of a taste to get what happened after isaac's outburst and how he got on the path toward better? If you wanna chat more about it, as always feel free to email or message me :) or leave something in the comments here.
> 
> huge HUGE thanks to my betas this round, Codarra and Kinthinia. (and advance thanks to thethronegames :) )


	13. Little Light Lead Us Through The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets awfully loud in Stiles' head sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Brand New song "Noro"
> 
> This started from a prompt a long time ago that I started and never quite finished. Hope you enjoy!

Stiles unloads his backpack, grateful that adjusting to school without Isaac here hasn’t been too difficult.  He’s still got most of the pack in most of his classes anyway.  Isaac’s definitely the one who got the worse end of the deal.  Though he’s taking courses online, keeping Derek company—when he’s not here keeping tabs on Stiles.  It’s been a nearly a month of adjustments and hyper vigilance, enduring whispers about Isaac that make Stiles blood boil even as his stomach churns.  He was afraid the turbulence would ruin everything he’d managed in those first weeks at school, but it seems he can manage it after all.  He hasn’t had another seizure, though he’s had to go out in the hall and collect himself a few times here and there.  He left early a couple of days, retreating to the parking lot when he realized conditioning was in danger of winning. 

“I’ve finished grading your essays,” Ms. Clark announces, grabbing a stack of papers from her desk.  “I’m a little disappointed in some of you,” she chastises.  “You’re never going to make the AP scores you need for class credit if you don’t take these assignments seriously.  I left a note for a few of you to see me after class.”

Stiles gut clenches unpleasantly.  He hasn’t written an essay for Clark before, and though he’s done well enough on his tests, he’s still nervous until she hands him a paper with “91excellent job!” written in big red letter at the top.  There’s even a big smiley face underneath.  He can’t help grinning as he flips through looking at the corrections she made and the note she left at the end: “You have a talent for analyzing works and looking beyond the direct text to connect the dots, just be careful your writing stays focused. Your flow is a little jumpy.”

He huffs a laugh that makes Scott wonder, “What?”

“Apparently my ADHD carries over into writing.”

“Dude, the bite totally fixed that,” Scott reminds.  “Medically anyway.  You need to work on new excuses.”

“Not an excuse dude, A is an A.  What’d you get?”

“Ninety-four.”

“What? You can’t beat me. Totally not allowed,” Stiles grumbles.

“I thought you just said an ‘A is an A’.”

“Yeah but—”

“Okay, more worrying over GPAs after class,” Ms. Clark says loudly, calling their attention so she can get started.  “Everyone pull out your copy of Brave New World.  Who wants to start us off reading today?” 

Stiles still isn’t sure if she calls on him so often because she can tell it calms him or just because he looks eager, but she chooses his hand from among those raised and he begins to read aloud:

 “Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand…”

 

*******************************************

 

Stiles takes his seat next to Scott in the biology lab still mulling over some of the words from Brave New World.  He’s starting to think it might be one of his favorite books: the examination of dulled contentment versus the horrible, endless struggles that come with a more dynamic life.  It’s kinda cool to think Huxley totally would’ve got why Stiles hates needing the sedative—why he’s almost glad sometimes human medicines wouldn't work on him.  It’s even cooler to think the guy wrote all that shit decades and decades ago, but it’s still relevant to a werewolf kid in the twenty-first century. 

_Dude it would be cool as fuck to write something like that.  I did pretty good on that paper.  I’m not total shit at it.  Maybe if I do this whole college thing I should take some classes.  Or is that stupid? Maybe that’s stupid.  Who’d want to read my rambling shit anyway?_

“Since Ms. Briggs was suddenly ill this morning,” Mr. Harris’ voice says, startling Stiles and the rest of the class to attention. “I’ve been forced to give up my planning period to deal with all of you,” he continues as the class groans at the prospect.  “Trust me, I want this period to be over just as badly as all of you.”

            _Wanna bet?_ Stiles thinks.

            “You’ll work with your benchmates on this mundane worksheet.  The work will be graded; don’t fool around.” 

            When Harris calls the role, he pauses when the reaches Scott’s name.

            “Why on earth would any teacher in their right mind allow you and Stilinski as lab partners? We’re lucky the school’s still intact,” Harris comments.

            Stiles bites back a retort, wondering briefly if he should just leave the class now.  He doesn’t want Harris to win though, so he stares down at his textbook instead.

            “Ms. Martin, I hate to burden you with a partner like Stilinski who’s so far behind—”

            “He’s not a burden!” Scott protests too vehemently, rising to his feet.

            “I’m not sure that I like your tone, Mr. McCall.”

            “Stiles isn’t a burden.”

            “And your tone still isn’t improving.”

            “He—”

            “Out of my class,” Harris orders.

            “No, I—”

            “Out. Of. My. Class.”

            “But I—”

            “I’m sure Mr. Stilinski can manage the separation anxiety, given that his attention span never tops five minutes.  He’ll forget to worry about it soon enough.”

            “Hale,” Stiles says quietly, looking down at the table, still-human fingernails digging into his palms as he fights for control.

            “What was that?”

            “My last name’s Hale,” he asserts a little louder, raising his eyes to Harris’ face, “and I’m not a burden.”

            _I’m not. I’m useful. I studied.  I know what I need for this class. Lydia’s pack. She’ll want to work with me. I’m not a burden. I’m a Hale, and I’m not a burden._

            Harris huffs and rolls his eyes.  “I’ve had more than enough from the both of you.  I don’t know why you always insist on trying my patience.  Mr. McCall,to the office.  Mr. _Stilinski_ don’t expect special treatment for your highly suspicious leave of absence, and be grateful I don’t make you work alone instead of asking Ms. Martin to pull your dead weight.”

            “I’m not!” Stiles persists. 

            “Leave him alone!” Scott orders, heading for Harris.

            Jackson intercepts him.  “Lay off, Scott. You can’t. He’s a teacher.”

            “He’s an _asshole_!”

            “I know, but calm down. You—”

            Stiles shuts his eyes against the amused grin on Harris’ face as Jackson keeps trying to talk Scott down, until Harris’ sneer gets Jackson spitting obscenities too. 

“Let it go, Jackson,” Danny urges, coming in to try and keep the situation from escalating to the next level.

_They’ll lose control. They’ll hurt him. They’ll get expelled like Isaac._

_All because of me. Trying to protect me._

_Because I’m the burden that needs protecting.  I’m the burdensome, dead weight that gets my pack into trouble._

  Stiles is losing it; the tremors won’t stop.  He’s going to shift. Here. In school. In a school full of innocent kids.  He’s going to hurt someone.

            _What were you thinking? How could you risk this? You should’ve known better you pathetic, selfish little wretch,_ Rachel taunts in his mind. _Who were you kidding thinking you could handle this?_

He’s got to keep control.  His hands are under the table so he lets his claws extend.  He jumps as someone plops into the vacated chair next to him and grabs his wrist before the claws can dig in.

            “Don’t, Stiles,” Lydia murmurs quietly.  “You’ve got this.  You’re okay.”

            “I can’t.”

            “Yes, you _can._ Harris is a jackass.  Don’t let it bother you.”

            “Scott—Jackson—”

            “Danny’s in the way.  They won’t hurt, Danny.  It’s okay.”

            “I can’t, Lydia.  I can’t.”

            “Come on,” she says, hands on Stiles shoulders as she pulls him up from the chair.  “Just hold on long enough to get outside, okay? You can do that. I know you can. Come on, Stiles.”

            He lets her lead, half supporting Stiles’ weight as Stiles uses most of his energy to just focus on breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. They burst out the doors into the open air, and Derek’s there waiting.  Of course he is.

            “Good, Stiles. Good. You got it. You’ve got control.  Come on. We’ll go home. Harris is an ass. You’re okay.”

            “Tell me I’m not a burden,” Stiles pleas. “Tell me I’m—”

            Derek’s hand finds his cheek, turning Stiles’ face up to meet his eyes. 

            “You are never a burden, Stiles,” he promises solemnly.  “You are a loved and important and needed part of this pack.  Okay?”

            “Yes, Derek,” Stiles agrees quietly.

            “Come on. We’re going home.”

            “We’ll make fucking sure Harris doesn’t get anywhere near you,” Lydia swears.  “That smug-ass motherfucker is going down. Just _wait_ until I get Mr. Whittemore up here,” Lydia continues, pulling out her phone with a calculating grin.  We’ll take care of it, Stiles.  Don’t worry, okay?”

            “Thank you, Lydia.  You shouldn’t—I could’ve hurt you.”

            “I’m not scared of you, Stiles,” she replies, squeezing his hand.  “You’re stronger than you think,” she adds, with a reassuring smile. “Now, go home.  Take it easy.  I’ll bring your homework later and give you guys an update.”

            “Call me if there’s any more trouble,” Derek says.

            “They’ll be fine.  Danny’s a pro at handling Jackson’s temper, and Scott’s too good-natured to hurt anyone other than Harris right now.”

  

 

*******************************************

 

            Stiles stares miserably out the window as they drive, and his melancholy is enough to make Derek want to go back and rip Harris’ tongue out of his mouth himself.

            “I wasn’t going to be a burden,” Stiles mutters.  “I read ahead and everything.   Mrs. Briggs’ class is awesome.”

            “Of course you’re not a burden.  You’re too fucking smart for your own good.   Harris is intimidated,” Derek assures, knowing it’s probably a little true.  “You’ve got the highest grade, don’t you?” Derek asks, encouraging the mental fight against the idea of Stiles being a lacking student. 

            Stiles smiles a little. 

“Yeah, I beat Lydia on our last test by two points.  She was pissed.”

            “You two would’ve been an awesome team.  Harris is just an asshole.  He likes picking fights he knows he can win.  He’s a bully.”

            “I really thought I was going to shift in there, Derek.”

            “But you didn’t.”

            “I could’ve hurt people. I could’ve—”

            “But you _didn’t._ You were absolutely fantastic, Stiles.  I’m so fucking proud of you.”

            “Yeah?” Stiles wonders with a grin.

            “Hell yeah,” Derek confirms emphatically.  “Don’t let Harris bug you.”

            _Because if Whittemore can’t get him out of that school, I’ll get him out myself if I have to rip his fucking arms off.  He won’t be the reason you lose this one normal thing you’ve been able to gain back._

 

**********************************************

 

            Stiles leaves the office just a little shaky after talking to the administrators about what happened with Harris.  He’s feeling pretty good about the whole thing, and not at all repentant about the fact that this incident will likely get Harris put on administrative leave at the very least.  The guy’s a total dick, and school’s hard enough without him playing his power trip of fucking with Stiles and Scott and the other kids he’s got irrational vendettas against.  He deserves whatever’s coming. 

            “They want to talk to you now, Dad,” Stiles says as he comes out.

            “You be okay out here ‘til I’m done?”

            “Yeah, I’m good.”

            Stiles, of course, listens into the conversation.  He can’t help smiling as Dad rips the administrators a new one for allowing “a bullying, unprofessional teacher like that inconsiderate ass to sully the education of my son and his classmates.  It’s unacceptable in any circumstances, much less in the case of a teenager who has overcome as much as Stiles has to be here.  This is absolutely intolerable!”

            “Sheriff, we understand you’re upset,” the principal concedes, “but perhaps—”

            “Don’t you _dare_ presume to think you know _anything_ about how upset I am.  I—”

            The urge to go in and help Dad as the discussion grows more heated starts to itch in the back of Stiles’ mind, so he rises from his spot outside the office, looking for a distraction.  He’s perusing the trophy display, a collection he’s walked by thousands of times since he started high school, and it’s a decent enough occupation of his protective instincts until his eyes flick over an old basketball photo, fixating on the cocky grin of a young Peter Hale.

            He turns away quickly, taking deep breaths though he’s not entirely sure why the picture’s having this effect. 

            _Peter’s dead. He’s dead. He can’t hurt anyone ever again._

_I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m totally, totally fine._

But he’s not.  As his brain tries to rationalize all the reasons Stiles has to remain calm, his heart continues to race ever faster and his breath comes in shortening gasps.   He leans his forehead against the cool glass, hoping the feeling will soothe him, but it doesn’t.  All he can feel is the give of the mattress under him as Peter—

            “Goddamn it!” he rages, first slamming into the case, shattering glass with a crash. 

            “Stiles? Are you okay?” Danny’s voice wonders even as Stiles struggles to pull himself out of the horrible memories and back to reality. “Shit, you’re bleeding you—”

            “It’s okay,” Stiles says, his own voice odd in his ears.  “I don’t mind the pain. I want to be good.”

            Stiles isn’t talking to Danny; the wretch in him is talking to Peter.  It’s the most uncomfortable, uncontrollable moment he’s maybe ever had, like an out of body experience but he’s here. He heard the words come form his mouth.  He wonders if this is what possessed people feel like—if people really get possessed? There are werewolves, so demons aren’t too far a stretch. Who knows?

            “Hey, Stiles, look at me, come on,” Danny insists, clapping a hand down on Stiles’ shoulder.

            Stiles growls, fangs extending, as he grips Danny’s wrist to twist it away.   

            “Fucking insolent human,” Stiles sneers, as his claws sink into the weak flesh that dared lay a hand on him.

            _No. No! NO! Danny. It’s Danny. It’s Danny. Don’t hurt him. Don’t. Can’t. Won’t!_

“You can’t turn into a fucking mythical creature in the middle of the hall, man.  Get a grip on yourself.  Come on. No werewolf shit at school.”

            “What?” Stiles repeats dumbly, the surprise at the words coming from Danny’s mouth helping him pull away from the conditioning that fights for control of his body. 

            “Stiles?” Dad’s voice calls from the office door.

            “He’s good, sheriff,” Danny replies.  “We’re just gonna get some air, right, Stiles?” Danny asks with a surprisingly convincing smile given that Stiles claws haven’t even entirely retracted from Danny’s wrist. 

            “Uh-huh,” Stiles agrees dumbly.  “Fresh air.”

 

****************************************************

 

            The sound of shattering glass has Derek out of the car and sprinting for the school in an instant.

            _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

He reaches the front doors and nearly barrels into Stiles and Danny in the hall.      

            “Get him the hell out of here, Hale,” Danny orders.  “He’s gonna change I think.”

            “No, no, can’t. Not here,” Stiles mutters, squeezing his eyes shut.  “Fresh air.  I’m okay. I’m okay.”

            “Yeah, you’re okay,” Derek agrees.  “Come outside, Stiles.  Don’t shift.”

            “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Stiles whines. “Please, Alpha. Don’t make—”

            “You don’t have to hurt anyone,” Derek swears.  “Keep walking.  Walk to the car.”

            “No—not bad. I’m not bad.  I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t,” Stiles argues quietly.  “I’m not a burden.  I belong at school. I can come to school.  Humans are okay.”

            “Whatever they’re saying, don’t listen,” Derek urges, assuming the argument’s being waged against an alpha’s voice. 

            “Derek.”

            “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here. Not them. You’re okay.”

            “Don’t leave me with Thomas,” Stiles whimpers.  “He’s loud, Derek. He’s so loud.  Make it stop. Tell him I’m good. I’m a good beta, right Derek? Right? Please? I want to be—”

            “You’re so good, Stiles,” Derek praises.  “Such a good beta.  Keeping control like this.  Look! We’re at the car already.  Can you get in?”

            “Yes, Alpha—Derek—yeah. I can get in. Shut up, Thomas! You’re dead! You’re dead! You’re not real! Stop it! Shut up! Shut up!”

            “That’s it, Stiles; don’t listen to him.”

            Stiles plops down into the passenger seat as Derek opens the door, but his grip on Derek’s Henley doesn’t lessen. 

            “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

            “Okay, we’ll stay right here a minute,” Derek agrees, crouching down by the car.  “I’m not going anywhere, okay? I know you didn’t mean it.”

            “I hurt Danny. Derek, I hurt Danny. I—I hurt a human. I’m not allowed to hurt the humans. The Alpha will be very angry if I hurt the humans. I don’t want to be punished. I can be good, Alpha.  I won’t hurt them again.  I’ll be better. I promise…”

            Stiles continues his baffling monologue, muttering on like a man possessed, shifting almost indiscernibly between various stages of his conditioning and his real self.  Derek’s never seen his regression get this dynamic.  He doesn’t know how he can possibly make it better, so he just murmurs assurances, trying his best to follow the insanity tumbling from Stiles’ mangled mind.

            “Should I get some of the others?” Danny wonders. 

            “Why aren’t you freaking out?” Derek replies.  “How bad did he hurt you? Are you—”

            “It’s not so bad,” Danny replies, not moving his left hand from where he’s keeping pressure on his right wrist.  “I mean I should probably get it looked at, but it’ll be fine. I don’t think he let his claws out all the way.”

            “You’re in shock, aren’t you?” Derek asks. “Fuck.  I—”

            “I’m not in shock,” Danny counters.  “I just—”

            “Tried to help a werewolf who clawed your arm up,” Derek replies.  “Of course you’re in shock.  Look—”

            “Dude, the werewolf part is the least weird thing going on here.”

            “What?”

            “You seriously thought I would miss the fact that four guys—including my best friend—at school are werewolves? Stiles and Scott are the furthest thing from covert in the history of mankind.  I cannot even tell you how many fucking conversations I—”

            “How long have you known?”

            “I dunno. A while—sometime after Jackson went from killer lizard to man’s best friend on steroids.”

            “What the _fuck_?”

            “Dude, honestly, I don’t give a shit.  I don’t want any part of it.  I thought it was some stupid code shit that Stilinski made up until I asked Jackson about it and the truth of it came out.”

            “Jackson knows that you know?”

            “Jackson knows I want to stay out of the insanity.”

            Derek’s mind is totally blown with this information that’s somehow escaped him.

            _Danny figured it out? How many others could figure it out? This is bad. People can’t know. Humans can’t know. What if this little shit—_

“Look, I know you don’t trust people,” Danny says.  “Good call given all the shit that you guys get into.  I’m not going to tell anyone; you’re not going to drag me into your little fright fest.  Deal?”

            “Yeah, I guess so. I don’t—”

            “Cool, because this shit is still bleeding and I kinda think I need some stitches.  McCall’s mom knows about this shit? Like if I show up to the ER and give her some bullshit story, she’ll help cover.”

“I—Melissa knows, yes,” Derek replies.  “Do you need me to—”

“No offense, but—uh—no way in hell am I getting a cramped space with Stiles in that state, and we both know you’re not leaving him.  I’ll call Jackson or drive myself or something.  I—uh—hope Stiles gets calmed down okay and everything.”

            He starts back toward the school as though he just finished a perfectly normal conversation.  Derek knows he must look like a goddamn idiot sitting here opening and closing his mouth silently since he still can’t quite figure out what the hell to say. 

            _Thank him? Threaten him if he fucks with the pack? What? What the fuck am I supposed to do now I know he knows?_

            “Medicine, Derek,” Stiles demands, his voice entirely his own, free for just a moment of all the conditioning. “I need quiet.  I need the sedative. I can’t fucking think.”

            “Okay.”

            “Thanks—thank you, Derek. Alpha. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be better. I’ll be good.  I am good. I’m good. I’m good.  No, no, no. Not leaving. Not taking me away, taking me home. Home? Just home, Derek. Please let me stay. I didn’t mean to break the rules. I’ll be better. Whatever I deserve just don’t—”

“Shhhh, Stiles, we’re just going home,” Derek promises as he pushes the syringe into Stiles’ arm.

“Because I belong with _this_ pack,” Stiles asserts, words slurring more with every second. “I always have a place here. I’m not a burden. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.  The human should know better. It wasn’t my fault.  I didn’t mean to…I only…I’ll be better…”

His head lolls forward where he sits. Derek reaches to secure Stiles’ seatbelt before going around the car to sink into the driver’s seat, still trying to process what the fuck just happened.

 

******************************************************

 

            Isaac has to admit that as much as he may miss school there’s something incredibly awesome about getting to chill at home in his pajamas all day.  It’s kind of nice to get the house to himself so often, too.  The only downside is that it gets a little _too_ quiet every now and then.  The last place he needs to be stuck lately is his own head, so he calls Derek a couple times a day, to break the monotony for both of them.  He picks up his phone only to see Derek’s name pop up from an incoming call.

            “Hey, good timing,” Isaac greets, smiling even though Derek’s not here to see it.  “I was just about to—”

            “I need you to go to the ER and check up on the Mahealani kid.”   

            “What happened? Did—”

            “Stiles snapped a little—okay, a lot. I don’t know, but Danny stepped in.  Stiles just dug his claws in, shouldn’t be too bad, but if you could go just kinda look in and make sure—”

            “Shit, fuck, yeah, of course. I’m—I’m on my way out the door. Give me like two seconds,” Isaac replies, scrambling up from the sofa and clambering to the bedroom for real clothes.  “Is Stiles okay?”

            “Sedated.”

            “What happened?”

            “No, idea, I couldn’t really get anything out of the mumbling.  He wasn’t regressed though, just arguing with himself.”

            “So Danny, is he like—how freaked is he? Did someone go with him to explain? How are we covering—”

            “He already knew.”

            “Knew what?”

            “About us. Werewolves. That we have a pack.  He already knew.” 

            “Are you shitting me? How? Jackson?”

            “Says he figured it out overhearing Stiles and Scott.  Jackson confirmed.  Says he doesn’t want shit to do with us.”

_Can’t really blame him there. Probably a good choice in self-preservation._

“Hopefully that means he’s not going to go telling the world anything,” Derek goes on.  “He’s an okay guy, right? You know him enough.”

“Yeah, he’s a good guy.  I’m sure Jackson would’ve said something if he thought Danny was a threat to the pack at all.”

“Well, look in on him at the ER, just in case.  I hope Melissa’s working today.”

“I’m headed out the door now.  I’ll call you if there’s any trouble.  Keep me posted on Stiles.”

 

*************************************************

 

            Stiles wakes slowly, squinting against the rays of the afternoon sun streaming through the bedroom window.

            “Derek? Isaac?” he calls, hearing the sound of them moving around out in the kitchen. 

            _What happened? I was at school and then—fuck, fuck, fuck!_

He trips over his own feet as he scrambles toward the bedroom door, desperate to hear answers.

            “What did I do to Danny? How bad was he? Did we—”

            “He’s fine, Stiles, totally fine,” Derek soothes, meeting him in the hall.  “Just a few stitches.”

            _Stitches to help the human heal,_ Rachael says _.  They’re so weak.  Think of all the damage you could do in that school if you really let yourself have some fun.  You could’ve shredded his flesh until it hung off his bones in ribbons and—_

“Shut up!” Stiles insists, shutting his eyes and grabbing his ears like he can block her voice out.

            _You could’ve watched the life go out of his eyes, savored the screams, moved onto the next weakling with the first’s blood still warm on your hands.  You could tear that school apart long before they could find a way to stop you. Such an efficient little monster, aren’t you? So well-trained.  So eager to please._

“No!” he rages, striking out at the hand that reaches for him only to realize it’s Derek.

            “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, Alpha. I won’t do it again,” he rambles on, knees giving in to the urge to kneel but Derek doesn’t let him hit the floor.

            “It’s okay. I swear. Stay with me, Stiles, okay? Don’t listen to the Alphas.”

            _Striking your Alpha. Worrying him.  You’re so worthless, you little shit,_ Alec taunts.  _Look at you.  We should’ve just killed you; you’re no good to anyone anymore.  Broken and worthless and crazy as fuck.  You’re losing your mind. Can you feel it? Shattering into tiny little pieces you’ll never put back together._

Stiles _can_ feel it.  He feels the crazy closing in like he never has before. The voices keep going, both the ones in his mind and the voice of the wretch inside him pleading forgiveness even as he tries to stop the words.  He knows Derek won’t hurt him.  He knows there’s nothing to be afraid of.  Yet the promises of betterment still tumble from his lips in a voice that doesn’t even sound like his own.

            _He’s right. Alec’s right. I’m losing my fucking mind._

“Alec’s not real, Stiles. He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore. Don’t listen. He’s not right. He’s _not._ You’re not losing your mind.”

            Derek’s words make realize that perhaps all his mental arguing is escaping his lips.  Derek’s hearing it all?

            “I’m going crazy,” he tells Derek, grateful to hear the words come out in his own voice.  “I’m losing it. I’m—”

            “It’s a bad day; that’s all. You’re not regressing. You’re still here with me. Stay, Stiles; tune them out if you can.  Tell me what to say to help.”

            _He can’t help you. No one can help you. You’re ours,_ Thomas taunts, and Stiles’ stomach churns with all the horrible memories the phrase conjures. 

            “No, not yours,” Stiles mutters, twisting at the ring on his finger, staring down at the silver to remind himself of how different life is now.  “I’m not yours.  I belong with them.”

            “You’re mine,” Derek says.  “You are mine and Isaac’s and this pack’s.  We love you. You belong with us.  You belong to yourself, Stiles. You’re your own person now. You got away. They’re all dead.  You got away.”

            _No I didn’t._

He leans in, letting Derek’s support his weight, burying his face in Derek’s chest as the bedlam in his head continues uproariously. 

            “I just want it to stop,” Stiles says tiredly.  “Why can’t it just stop?”

            “It’ll get better,” Derek promises.

            _Empty words,_ Rachael jeers.  _Maybe it won’t get better. Maybe we get to haunt you for the rest of your miserable life.  Maybe you’ll never get quiet again._

“You want me to call Morrell? Or do you want medicine or distraction or—”

            “Let’s go for a run,” Stiles says.  “Please? If it’s okay, Derek? I don’t want to—”

            “Yeah,we can go run. You know whatever helps you is okay.  I’d love to go for a run with you, Stiles.  Come on.”

 

****************************************************

 

            “He was bad today,” Isaac says to Derek, breaking the ten minutes of melancholy silence after Stiles drifts off into sedated sleep.   

            Stiles didn’t stop mumbling all afternoon.  Not when he and Derek returned from an aborted attempt at a run just as Isaac got back from the hospital after checking in on Danny.  Not when Stiles cooked dinner in an attempt to distract himself.  Not when they sat down to watch television afterwards.   Sometimes what he said made sense, sometimes it was gibberish.  More than anything it was downright unnerving to get such a raw glimpse at the chaos in Stiles’ mind.

            “He was himself.  He didn’t regress. That could be a good thing, right?” Derek supposes.

            “I don’t know what’s a ‘good thing’ anymore and what’s just the lesser of two evils,” Isaac admits.

            “We have to hope it’s a good thing.  If he argues with their voices, maybe it’s—maybe he’s fighting back for all that time he couldn’t. Maybe it’s his mind trying to figure out how to win against the conditioning. Maybe it’s good for him. I don’t fucking know just—let me hope it’s a good fucking thing, okay? It could’ve been worse today, right? He could have hurt someone besides Danny.  He could’ve hurt Danny worse.  It could have been a nurse besides Melissa at the hospital.  Stiles could have regressed completely instead of just struggling in his head.  Today was bad, but it could’ve been worse. We’re still okay.”

            By the time Derek stops talking, Isaac’s pretty certain he’s trying to convince himself the words are true more than he’s trying to convince Isaac.  There’s a quiet fear in Derek’s face he turns to meet Isaac’s gaze. 

            “Right?” he wonders, seeking concurrence. 

            It’s a moment in which Morrell’s encouragement to find something to smile for, even if it’s not for himself, seems so incredibly important.  Isaac isn’t so sure he agrees with Derek.  Honestly most days he’s still ready to throw in the towel.  But Derek wants so badly to think that things are going to get better.  He wants more, and he’s got hope that he can have the happiness that’s eluded him for so long.  More than anything, Isaac wants to keep the spark of optimism that still remains in Derek alive.  He wants Derek and Stiles both to be vivacious and hopeful, not worn out and despairing.  Part of him can’t help hoping that one day their determination to keep going will rekindle Isaac’s own optimism

            So Isaac smiles for Derek, as wide and genuine as he can manage and agrees, “Right. Of course you’re right.  Stiles is strong and stubborn as hell.  He’s bound to have some bad days, but he’s getting better with time.  It’s all getting better.”

            Derek smiles back at the words, his fingers threading through Isaac’s as he moves to click on the television.  Isaac leans back into Derek so that Derek can’t see his face when the smile wanes and the worry comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unending thanks to my lovely betas! Codarra, Kinthinia, Thethronegames, y'all are fantastic!
> 
> Sidenote: just to be abundantly clear, Stiles' brief wondering about medication and whether he'd rather have it or not is not meant to in any way suggest that medication when needed is a bad thing. I myself take meds, but part of that struggle is finding the happy medium of enough to get you through without stepping into the place that makes you a spectator to your own life. If you've read Brave New World (and if you haven't, I highly recommend it!) you know the kind of extreme medication I'm talking about.


	14. Your Mother's Words They're Ringing Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She. Is. Not. Kate.”
> 
> “I’m not saying she’s Kate, man. I’m just saying he lost his whole family because of a hunter—a hunter whose niece you want to marry. Can you blame him for worrying? He’s scared out of his mind to lose his pack again. You fucking know that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "Sinister Kid"

            “Hey, Scott,” Derek greets as he opens the door.  “Stiles and Isaac are—”

            “I know,” Scott interrupts, “I came to talk to you actually.”

            “Oh,” Derek replies, unsure what else to say.

            He’s gotten closer to Scott of course, but they’re rarely alone together.  Judging by the serious look on Scott’s face and the way he’s chewing at his bottom lip, this isn’t really a social call anyway. 

            “I—uh—look, I know that we’re like all a pack and everything,” Scott says, and Derek already doesn’t like where this is going.  “You’re the Alpha or whatever, and—uh—you’re not gonna like what I have to say,” Scott predicts, rubbing a hand nervously on the back of his neck. “So just keep an open mind or whatever? Because it would be like really awesome if this didn’t turn into like some huge fucking thing with all of us and just fuck up all the good shit we’ve had going lately and—”

            “Something to do with Allison,” Derek guesses, interrupting the rambling, and Scott nods affirmation.  “ _What_ about Allison?”

            “About her not being allowed at the new house.”

            “Scott, we’ve had this discussion. This isn’t my house; it’s the sheriff’s. I don’t have a say here, but there is _no way in hell_ I’m letting a hunter in the pack house.  It’s not going to happen.”

            “I know what you said, and I get why you’re like hesitant or whatever, man, but she’s not—”

            “She’s a hunter.”

            “Yeah, but she’s—”

            “She’s an _Argent._ ”

            “She’s not Kate!”

            _We can’t know that for sure._

“The rule stands, Scott; it’s not up for discussion.”

            “Well it needs to be.”

            “Why? I told you already I won’t give you shit for dating her as long as you keep the pack out of your love life.”

            _And you can thank Isaac and Stiles for that because personally I wish you’d stay as fucking far from her as you can. It’s going to end badly one way or another. You can’t be with a hunter, Scott. You just fucking can’t.  It’ll never work.  You’re lucky Chris Argent hasn’t killed you yet._

“Because she’s not going anywhere,” Scott argues.  “She’s it for me, dude.  You know that.”

            “She dumped you and tried to kill half your friends.”

            “Name _one_ person in this pack that hasn’t done fucked up shit to someone else.  She’s apologized for that a million times. She fought the Alphas with us.  She’s—”

            “It’s not going to work, and you need to get your head around that. If you wanna have a fling or whatever, fine. Get it out of your system but—”

            “She is _it_ for me, Derek,” Scott repeats.  “I’m not kidding.”

            “Scott—”

            “I bought a ring.”

            “You _what?!_ ”

            “I bought a ring.”

            “You cannot possibly be serious.”

            “I’m not proposing tomorrow or anything.  I’m gonna spend like the rest of my life paying for it, but it’s bought and done and decided.  I’m asking her to marry me.”

            “Scott—”

            “I didn’t come here to ask your opinion of it,” Scott continues.  “I just want you to understand that I’m fucking serious about this.”

            “You’re seventeen. You’re still in high school. You—”

            “So are your husbands,” Scott retorts.

            _Yeah, okay, walked right into that one._

“Yeah, okay, we’re young, but I’ve almost died so many times I’ve lost fucking count.  If she doesn’t want to get married now—hell, if she doesn’t want to get married at all—that’s something I’ll deal with, but I’m asking her because she’s it for me and that’s all there is to it.”

            “Scott—”

            “And if—if she’s always gonna be excluded from anything you have a say in, if she’s gonna get shunned for mistakes she’s tried to make up for, and if there’s no chance for her to ever have a place at all in this pack then I—I can’t have a place in it either.”

            Derek’s eyes flare red at the assertion.

            “You would turn your back on your pack?”

            “I don’t want to.”

            “But you would.”

            “Yes.”

            _This is the problem, Scott.  This is the level of devotion that could fucking get you killed—and, worse, take the rest of us down with you. What the hell are you thinking? Why can’t you understand that this isn’t worth it?_

“I won’t let a hunter that close to this pack,” Derek says firmly.  “It’s just not going to happen, Scott.”

            Scott purses his lips. 

            “Derek—”

            “Date her if you want,” Derek says.  “Hell, marry her if Chris Argent doesn’t light your ass on fire for even asking.  You’re an idiot if you do, but as long as you keep her away from the pack, I won’t kick you out to fall to Omega but—”

            “You don’t have to kick me out,” Scott replies.

            _Oh, thank God. You’re not actually going to pick her over—_

“I’ll go on my own.”

            “Scott—”

            “Don’t,” Scott replies, pushing past Derek and storming out the door. 

            _She’s not worth it.  She’s not worth losing your pack. Come on, Scott. What’re you thinking?_

Derek waits for the moment the bond severs, waits to feel the jolt that will accompany Scott’s decision to leave, but it doesn’t.

            _He hasn’t fully made up his mind.  The choice isn’t as clear as he thinks it is._

**********************************************

 

            “He’s such a fucking asshole!” Scott rages.

            “I know; I know,” Stiles agrees, “but he’s not like he used to be.  You have to know he’s only trying to look out for the best interests of the—”

            “She’s not going to hurt the pack! Why can’t he give her a chance?”

            “He _has,_ Scott. He’s been nice to her when—”

            “You call that nice?”

            “Yes, from Derek, I call that nice.”

            “Stiles, come on. He’s being totally unfair. He—”

            “He lost his entire family when her aunt—”

            “She. Is. Not. Kate.”

            “I’m not saying she’s Kate, man. I’m just saying he lost his _whole family_ because of a hunter—a hunter whose niece you want to marry _._ Can you blame him for worrying? He’s scared out of his mind to lose his pack again.  You fucking know that.”

            _Yeah he comes off as an asshole.  Yeah Allison’s not Kate.  Yeah you love the hell out of her. But under that surly Alpha who’s finally got his shit together there’s still the fucked up 16-year-old who watched his family_   _burn and blames himself._

_And it’s not my secret to tell so I can’t ever explain it to you. I wish to God he would because maybe then you’d see it._

“He’s got to give her a chance.”

            “Maybe he will.  He’s been okay with her hanging around the pack some. He’s been getting better. He—”

            “He’s stubborn as fuck and he told me himself he’s not ever letting her near the pack.”

            “Could you really walk away from us?” Stiles wonders. 

_Could you walk away from me?_

            “I don’t want to.  I just—I don’t fucking know, man.  How am I supposed to stay with an Alpha who hates the girl I plan to marry?”

            “Give it time,” Stiles pleads. “You’re not asking her right away.  Just—just give it time? Let him settle with the idea. Let me and Isaac talk to him.  We’ll—we’ll see, okay? Just don’t decide to leave yet.”

            _Please don’t fucking leave._

**************************************************************

 

            “Derek?”

            “Yeah?”

            “It’s—uh—it’s Allison,” Stiles says, holding the phone out.  “She wants to talk to you.”

            He opens his mouth to argue, but the look on Stiles face makes it clear it’s in his best interest to just take the damn phone.

            “You have my number,” Derek says in lieu of a greeting.

            “You wouldn’t have picked it up,” she answers, “and I need to talk to you.”

            “Okay.”

            “Not a phone conversation. I want to talk. Just the two of us.”

            _Gee, that doesn’t sound suspicious as fuck at all, Argent._

“About what?”

            “Scott.”

            “Scott has all the information. He’s a big kid. He can make whatever decisions he wants to about his place in this pack. There’s nothing to talk about.”

            “Derek, _please_.”

            “There is nothing to talk about,” he insists.

            “Derek!” Stiles hisses angrily.  “Just fucking—”

            “Do you need to talk to Stiles again?” Derek wonders.

            “No, I need to talk to _you._ I—”

            He hangs up the phone before she finishes the sentence, tossing it back to Stiles, who’s clearly livid.

            “Derek!”

            “No hunter is getting close with this pack. Ever. Scott can make whatever decision he thinks he has to based on that fact.”

            “She just wants to talk; she’s trying to—”

            _She’s trying to get to close to my pack._

“No, Stiles. I know he’s your best friend. The answer is still no.”

            “You are such a fucking stubborn _asshole_ sometimes. I could strangle—”

The threat chokes off mid-sentence and Stiles closes his eyes tight. Derek sees the trembling start as Stiles balls up his fists.

            _Fuck, no, no, no, don’t regress. Don’t. Keep yelling. Yell all you fucking want. Be pissed. Please just be pissed. Don’t regress. Come on, Stiles. Come on. Fight it._

Stiles sucks in a shuddering breath as he opens his eyes to look at Derek again.

            “You might be a good Alpha,” he says, words slow and controlled and deliberate, “but that doesn’t make you any less of a stubborn jackass sometimes.”

            And with that he storms out the back door. 

            Derek’s so fucking proud of him he almost forgets to be annoyed.

 

****************************************************

 

 

            “I’m alone. I’m not armed. I just want to talk, Derek, please.”

            “Chris let you—”

            “Chris doesn’t know I’m here.  This isn’t an alliance meeting; this is the girl who loves your beta coming to talk to his alpha.”

            “Go home, Allison.”

            “Derek, _please_ just five fucking minutes,” she beseeches, impatience and frustration showing through her careful composure.

            _There’s the hunter who doesn’t take anyone’s shit.  Put on whatever understanding, meek face you want, Allison.  You’re still an Argent._

            “Go home,” he says again, turning to go back inside.

            “I know why you don’t want me with Scott,” she calls after him.

            _Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out—_

“I know what Kate did to you,” she continues, and Derek hesitates just a moment before shutting the door.  “I know what she did, and I’m sorry, but I’m not—”

            “Get in here,” Derek barks, jerking the door back open.  “You wanna talk ~~.~~?  Fine.  Get the fuck in here.”

            She shouldn’t. She should run from the glow he can feel rising in his eyes, but she doesn’t.  She fucking _hurries_ toward him like she’s scared he’ll change his mind.

            “You’ve got two minutes,” he tells her.  “What the fuck do you think you know about me and Kate?”

            He realizes he’s crowding her back into the wall behind her, fights the anger commanding him to grab her throat and pin her there for even daring to breach this fucking subject.

            “I know—I know that she used you to—she tricked you and—”

            “Who the hell told you anything about that?”

            _Not Stiles. Not Isaac. They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. Please fucking tell me they wouldn’t._

“Kate,” Allison answers, “when she had you in the basement of your old house. She—she told me what she did and how she did it and—”

            “Shut up,” he orders.

            “And then she wanted me to do the same thing to Scott,” Allison continues.  “She thought he could be our way to get to the rest of you, but I _didn’t_. I _couldn’t._ I could never _ever_ do that to him. _Ever._ Even when I was fucking out of my mind after my mom died, I didn’t hurt Scott. I _love_ him, Derek, and I don’t know if we can make this work or not, but I am always going to _love_ him even if we’re not together.  And I love him too much to let him walk away from his pack because of me.  It’s been good for him. _Really_ good, and he shouldn’t have to pick between me and his pack.  I don’t want him to have to.”

            “Then pick for him,” Derek replies.  “You’re a fucking hunter, an _Argent_ and—”

            “And soon enough I’ll be a McCall,” she interrupts.

            “What?”

            _He said he wasn’t proposing yet._

“You think I can’t read him? You think I couldn’t tell something was up? And then I knew he must’ve talked to you about something.  God help him, Scott isn’t ever going to give up on me, hunter or not, and I love him just as much, werewolf or not.  When he asks, I’ll say yes, and for better or worse I will be Allison Argent McCall, the hunter’s daughter who married a werewolf.”

            “You can’t possibly—”

            “I can, and I will.”

            “What about—”

            “Hunting got half my family killed.  We shed just as much innocent blood as some of the wolves we hunted.  I know this pack.  I know that you don’t want anything but to build it back into a family and keep that family safe.  I know the Hale Pack is not a threat to the humans in Beacon Hills; it’s an asset.  I don’t want to marry Scott and take down his pack; I want to marry him and _join_ it.”

            “ _Join it_?” Derek repeats incredulously.  “What the fuck, Allison? You—”

            “I’m not saying I want to join in today,” she answers. “I’m just—that’s the endgame.  If you’d consider it.”

            “Your dad would murder this whole pack with his bare hands before he’d let you—”

            “It’s not about my Dad.  It’s about me and Scott. Dad will get over it.  I’m all he’s got left and he’s not going to lose me. _You_ are the only one who can fuck this plan up, and I’m asking you not to. I’m asking you to give me a chance, for Scott.  Please.”

            “Allison—”

            “I’m not Kate.”

            “You—”

            “I’m not Kate,” she repeats insistently.  “She tricked me, too, okay? She lied to my face for years. She wanted to use me to get to Scott.  She was completely off the rails no matter how much I might’ve loved her, but that was _not my fault_. I can’t control what Kate did any more than you could control Peter. I’m sorry that she hurt you and that she—”

            “Shut up,” Derek cuts across. “Just shut up!”

            She obeys the command for just a moment before adding, “I _love_ Scott, Derek.  I. Am. Not. Kate.”

            He holds back all the things he wants to yell at her.  Literally bites his tongue to keep from screaming that he doesn’t care what she says. That there is no way he can ever believe her.  That he is never, ever going to risk his pack like that again. He’s never going to risk being the last one standing again because he can’t fucking survive it twice—hell he didn’t even survive it once.  He’s the pathetic, self-loathing, angry shell of the idiot teenager that brought down his pack all those years ago.  But he can’t—won’t—say that out loud because he’s never admitting to her just how deep Kate cut, how lasting the damage was, how she’s still lurking in the back of his mind every fucking day.

            “You know I love him,” Allison insists.

            _I know you can pretend to but what if it’s just a game? Kate was good at—_

Kate was good at pretending. Kate played into everything Derek needed.  She’d given him a sense of power, and the illusion of love cloaked in deceit and lust.  She’d made herself play the perfect part, anything and everything Derek ever wanted.  She was too good to be true, and Derek should’ve seen it.

            Allison’s not Kate.  She fights with Scott—even dumped him once.  They argue.  They disagree. Scott’s come to pack meetings more than once complaining about the state of things between the two of them.  She’s not trying to be his perfect girl.  There have been times she didn’t give a shit if he wanted to be around her or not—even told him to stay away for a while.

            She’s here without Scott, a hunter unarmed before an Alpha who hates her, begging for a chance.  Declaring love for Scott with tears in her eyes. Apologizing for Kate.  Revealing the secret she’s kept for Derek even though she had no obligation to. 

            _She’s not Kate._

Derek still doesn’t trust her.  He still thinks this is a fucking horrible idea.

            _But she’s not Kate._

“Derek?”

            “We’ll see,” he says finally.

            “We’ll see?” she repeats like she can’t believe he’s actually budging on the issue; he can’t entirely believe it either.

            “I’ll think about it, okay? And there will be rules. _Lots_ of fucking rules, and so help me God if you fuck with anyone in this pack I will rip you apart, you understand?”

            “Yeah, yeah, thank you.”

            He nods curtly.  “Okay then.”

            “Just—uh—I guess let Scott know what you decide on?”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay.”

            He realizes then that he’s blocking her from leaving and steps to the side.  She turns when she reaches for the door handle.

            “Thanks, Derek.”

            “Not doing it for you.”

            _And I swear to God if you make me regret trying to keep this turbulence out of the pack there are no words for the pain I will rain down on you._

“I know, but thanks anyway,” she says as she leaves, shutting the door quietly behind her.

            _What the fuck did I just agree to?_

**************************************************************

 

            The first time Allison walks through the door of the pack house, everyone tenses.  Isaac spends the evening waiting for the other shoe to drop—Derek to start yelling, Allison to call Derek on the glares he’s giving for no real reason, Scott to demand Derek be nicer—but everything is fine.  Not perfect, not an episode of the Waltons, but fine.  They talk about non-consequential topics—weather and sports and movies—because Allison’s not allowed to know any pack business. She’s also not allowed here without supervision of at least three pack members, preferably Derek as one of them. All visits have to be requested before she comes.  She’s allowed no weapon of any sort—not that she’s anything near harmless even without knives and arrows—and she can’t be here the week leading up to the full moon.

            There are other rules, and the rules Derek keeps adding as he comes up with them, but Allison takes them all in stride with a slightly strained smile.  Isaac would say he couldn’t understand it, but he sees the way Scott looks at her and the looks she gives back.   He really does hope they find a way to make this work.

            _But if she jeopardizes this pack, even if it doesn’t get someone killed, it’s going to rip us all apart._

The tension doesn’t leave with Allison but it lessens in everyone except Derek.  Isaac can’t say he’s surprised when Derek goes out for a run, but he _is_ surprised when Derek comes back more stressed than before he left. 

            “It went well,” Isaac reminds him, coming behind the couch where Derek’s plopped down and attempting to massage the knots of tension in his shoulders.  “She won’t even be back until Thursday for pack dinner.”

            “I know,” Derek replies shortly, clearly not interested in talking about it.

            “Thank you,” Stiles says.  “For trying this. I know—”

            “No, you don’t,” Derek interrupts moodily.  “So shut up.”

            “I just mean—”

            “Whatever you _mean_ , you don’t understand,” Derek replies.  “I lost damn near my whole family.  My pack was fucking _obliterated,_ Stiles. Do you get that?”

            “She’s not—”

            “She’s not Kate, but she’s still a fucking huge risk.  Stop trying to calm me down.  Stop pretending we can already trust her.”

            “Derek—” Isaac tries, but he’s up off the couch in the next instant, heading for the door again.

            “Don’t wait up,” he says, as it swings shut behind him.

 

*************************************************************

 

            Derek plops to the newly mown grass and leans back against the cold granite stone.

            _I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, Mom. I let a hunter in the house. I let her sit down at the table with my pack like she belonged there. The niece of the woman who killed you. How could I do that? What am I doing?_

He wishes for the millionth time that there were a way for her to reply to him.  He can’t even voice how much he misses the calm, practical advice-giving tone he _detested_ as a teenager.  He’d thought she went overboard with the solemn way she approached her responsibility as Alpha; he’d hated the way Laura had tried to mimic it once Mom was dead.  Now he’d give just about anything to have at least one of them here to take this fucking weight off his shoulders and let the fear that he’s going to fuck up everything good that’s happened to his pack—if not by letting Allison in, by some other stupid mistake—and the constant worry is so much more exhausting than he even imagined.  He’d thought it would get better with time, and it does, mostly. 

            _The more I have, the more I have to lose, and I—I don’t know how to make sure I don’t make another mistake like Kate.  I should’ve seen that coming, but I didn’t.  I was stupid.  I was fucking blind.  What if I’m still blind? What if I get them all killed? What if I lose them? I can’t lose them. I can’t, Mom, but I don’t know how to protect them without becoming the kind of controlling Alpha you would’ve hated me to be._

_What do I do, Mom? What am I supposed to do?_

*****************************************************

 

            Stiles stirs as Derek climbs into bed beside him.  Derek turns to the outside of the bed, leaving unusual distance.  Maybe he shouldn’t, but Stiles closes the distance himself, spooning up behind Derek; he knows it was the right choice when Derek relaxes just slightly at the contact. 

            _I don’t know what to say to make you worry less, but I really don’t think this is a mistake.  I think it’ll be really good it we all just take it slow and careful.  The pack is growing. It’s a good thing._

Stiles just hopes he isn’t wrong.

 

**************************************************************

 

            _Derek watches in horror as the house burns, the screams of his pack emanating from the inferno and echoing through the woods; he catches his name more than once.  The stench is suffocating, and he fights with everything in him to get to the house, to save them or die with them, to do anything to prevent surviving while they perish.  Something holds him back, and he rips his eyes from the terrible scene to face his captor.  Peter grins at him, face half masked by seared flesh._

_“You didn’t deserve them anyway,” he says.  “An Alpha blinded by human sentimentality.  You never had any chance at protecting them.  You were always going to lose them; it was only a question of time and technique.  I have to say there’s something poetic in the pretty face of an Argent deceiving you both times.”_

_“No! No! I can still get them. I can save them! Let me go, Peter! I can—”_

_Even as he protests, the house collapses in, sparks flying everywhere as the frame crumples._

_“No! Stiles! Isaac!”_

_“They’re gone, Derek.  It’s just you!”_

_“Scott! Jackson! Lydia!”_

_Anybody.  Anybody.  Don’t leave me here. Come back. I can’t be alone. I can’t._

_“NO! Isaac! Stiles! Answer me!”_

_Be anywhere but there. Please. Please please. Don’t be dead._

“Derek, wake up!” Isaac’s voice commands.

            His eyes snap open and he realizes it’s Isaac he’s been trying to escape, the deep claw marks down his arm dripping blood onto the carpet, and Stiles keeps his distance, eyes pained and whole body trembling. 

            “Shit, shit, I’m sorry; I didn’t—”

            “Hey, it’s okay; it was just a bad dream,” Isaac promises, hand coming up to Derek’s face the way he’s watched Isaac comfort Stiles dozens of times.  “Come on, let’s—let’s go downstairs a minute, okay?”

            “Hot chocolate?” Stiles suggests, and Derek nods.  “And maybe a Disney movie; we’re overdue.”

            They’re ‘overdue’ because they’ve been on an awesome streak with Stiles’ nightmares lately.  There’s been little need for falling asleep to Sebastian crooning ‘Kiss the Girl,’ which has become Stiles’ favorite way to relax after rough rounds of nightmares.  Of course, it a confidential tactic, that none of them will ever admit to, but honestly it’s damn effective.  It’s hard to be frightened or depressed when some vivacious little cartoons are singing annoyingly catch songs. 

            “I’ll get the hot chocolate,” Stiles offers when they get downstairs.  “You guys get the movie started.”

            Derek wants to argue that he doesn’t need this.  He wants to say he’s fine.  The thing is though, he’s not, not at all, and he’s not going to risk falling back asleep and seeing—

            “You want to talk about it?” Isaac wonders quietly. 

            Derek shakes his head, settling in next to Isaac and laying hands on his arms to leech the pain while they finish healing. 

            “Sorry,” Derek says.  “I thought I was fighting Peter.”

            “It’s okay.  They’ll be fine in a couple minutes,” Isaac assures with a smile.

            _It’s not okay, but thanks for pretending._

They get the movie started—Derek’s a secret sucker for _Toy Story_ —and he can feel the residual terror of the nightmare ebbing slowly.

            “Thanks,” Derek says when Stiles hands him a mug.

            “I’m glad to, Derek,” Stiles answers automatically, and all three of them freeze. “Sorry—still half asleep,” Stiles dismisses.  “But you know I seriously don’t mind.  Not like it’s a hardship,” he goes on with a smile.  “I’ll take any excuse for hot chocolate.”           

            “Seconded,” Isaac adds, taking another sip.

            Derek doesn’t sleep, even when Isaac and Stiles have dozed off again, but it’s okay.  It’ll be time for breakfast soon, and it’s Sunday, so blueberry pancakes.  

            _I’m okay. It’s okay. They’re safe._

_For now._

***************************************************************

 

            The howl of pain reaches the house and has everyone on his or her feet in an instant.

            _Isaac._

The howl that follows is pained too, but angry.

            _Jackson._

Derek wonders only briefly if they’re fighting each other.  The full moon is tonight after all; maybe it’s just an argument that got out of hand.  Stiles and Scott are right behind him as he flies through the woods toward the sound of fighting.  Derek’s heart nearly stops when the growls cease.

            “Isaac! Jackson!” Stiles screams.

He’s giving away their position, but Derek doesn’t care. He needs to hear they’re okay just as much as Stiles does.

“Here!” Isaac calls back, just a few hundred yards off now, and relief washes over Derek at the sound.  “We’re okay.”

Allison Argent stands by the two healing werewolves, bow and quiver on the forest floor and hands up in surrender.  Derek growls and lunges at her in blinding fury, but both Jackson and Isaac leap to intercept him.

“She protected us!” Jackson says.

“It’s not what you think,” Allison swears.  “Look, I know I’m not supposed to be here with the full moon but—but I saw them in town and I couldn’t risk—”

“Protected,” Derek repeats dumbly, channeling very ounce of control into smothering his instincts enough to allow reason.

“Look,” Isaac says, “ _They’re_ the ones who were shooting at us, not Allison.”

The still forms of two hunters lie in the leaves just a few feet away.  There’s an arrow in an eye socket of each. 

“You killed them?”

“If it was one of you, my father could claim the Code was broken,” Allison says.  “He won’t question me.”

“Allison—” Scott says, voice pained.  “You didn’t have to.”

“I’m fine,” she replies, though her face isn’t quite as stoic as she probably hopes.  “I was—I protected the pack,” she says.  “And they weren’t following the Code. It’s—it’s what needed to be done.”

“I think—uh—I think maybe we need some—uh—a little help here,” Isaac says, and Derek catches the scent of wolfsbane mixing with their blood. 

He reaches to support Isaac as Scott does the same for Jackson. 

“We’ll get you back up to the house,” Derek says.  “There’s plenty of antidotes in Lydia’s kit.  You’ll be good as new in no time.”  


“Far be it from me to question Doc Martin’s preparedness,” Isaac agrees with a thin smile.

“Call her Doc Martin to her face,” Jackson mumbles.  “See how long you live then.”

Derek’s still not sure why Lydia’s so resistant to becoming the next generation of Deaton for this pack, but he can understand rebelling against the clearcut idea of one’s ‘destiny.’  It’s something he should really talk to her about though—if he ever figures out how the fuck to converse easily with her. 

_Maybe just mention it to Stiles. Whatever. It can wait. More important things now._

As they turn to go, Allison turns back to the bodies.

“You could—” Derek starts haltingly. “Ya know, follow us to the house,” Derek says.  “We’ll be slow.  You can cover us.”

She smiles at the request, dazzling and genuine, and Scott’s beaming, too.

“Yeah, of course,” she consents quickly, readying her bow and falling in step behind them.          

Derek still doesn’t trust her; he’s going to watch every fucking move she makes tonight. He’ll shove her down in the safe room with Lydia if Stiles starts to lose it.  Still, two hunters down and barely batting an eyelash says a lot for where she’s willing to go for this pack.  It’s a helluva step in the right direction.

_Maybe this can work.  Just please don’t let this bite me in the ass._

     


	15. So empty, so estranged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1/3 for an arc within the work
> 
> Part 1: So empty, so estranged  
> Part 2: it's the hurt I hide that fuels the fires inside me  
> Part 3: Well I looked my demons in the eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "Empty" by Ray Lamontagne

            Isaac wakes slowly, blinking against the darkness.  It’s damp and quiet and the earthy smell leads him to assume he’s in a basement.

“Isaac? You okay?” Stiles wonders.

“Where the fuck are we?”      

“You remember the wreck?” Stiles wonders.  “The truck ran us off the road and—”

“Hunters?” Isaac wonders, trying not to panic.

“Alpha, I think,” Stiles says.  “Nothing smells like a human.”

Isaac realizes he’s right, catching the scent of only one other werewolf in the room.  He stands, feeling for the wall; he doesn’t realize he’s searching for the door until Stiles says, “We’re stuck, dude. I’ve tried.”

“What d’you mean we’re stuck?”

“I mean the door’s locked and something’s shoved against it.  We’ll just have to make a move when the Alpha comes back to—”

“No,” Isaac denies, “no, no, no we can’t—we’re not stuck; we can’t be trapped in here. There’s a way out.”

“I _tried_. We’re—”

“We’re not stuck!” Isaac barks, just as his fingers finally brush the doorknob.

It’s locked of course; why would Stiles lie? Isaac feels the breath leave his lungs like he’s been punched.  Even though it’s dark, he shuts his eyes against the feeling that the walls are closing in, smaller and smaller, until it’s no bigger than—than—

_Let me out! Dad, please! Let me out! I can’t breathe, Dad! I can’t breathe! I’m sorry, okay? I’ll—I’ll get extra credit.  I’ll talk to the teacher.  It’ll be an A by finals I swear! Let me out!  Dad!_

_But Dad doesn’t answer; no matter how he screams, Isaac knows he won’t; he knows Dad will wait until Isaac’s passed out to open the lid. He should play unconscious, but Dad will know. Dad always knows.  He has it to a science, completely controlled, and Isaac’s fate is every bit as sealed as the lining of this freezer.  His calm dissolves more and more with each passing minute. He pounds and claws with increasing frenzy as breathing becomes more and more difficult._

***********************************************************

 

           

_It hurts; God, it hurts so fucking bad._

            “I’m sorry; I’m sorry,” he swears as claws slice deeply into his arms yet again, though the flesh is already cut to ribbons.  “I’ll be better. I can be better. I’ll be good now.  I’m sorry!”

            But the blows don’t stop; the other beta slashes deeper with every new strike.  He cowers, trying to coil into as small a target as possible, exposing his back in an effort to protect his ruined abdomen, but curling in tears and pulls even more at the abused skin and muscle.  It seems this beta is determined to flay every inch of him, and he desperately wishes he knew what he did that was so horribly, horribly wrong.  The higher beta isn’t teaching.  No sounds escape him except grunts and growls of rage.  It’s a punishment, not a lesson. 

            _What did I do? I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.  I can be better. Please, please just stop._

“I’ll be better.  I won’t do it again,” he wails, though he has no idea what such an assurance entails.  “Please, stop! Please, beta! I’ll be good!”

            But his pleas fall on deaf ears.   The beta doesn’t pause in the slightest, not for pleading or promises or screams.  He just keeps doling out the punishment, mercilessly rending flesh until finally, _finally_ the dark nothingness starts to creep in and pull him under; he welcomes the recess with a sigh of relief.

 

**************************************************************

 

            Isaac bolts, unthinking, toward the blinding light, desperate to be free, to breathe, to run, to hide.  The blow that sends him tumbling comes from nowhere, followed by an unfamiliar chuckle.  He’s on his feet again, ready to fight, but the Alpha pins him easily enough.

            _Why am I so fucking exhausted?_

“A little claustrophobic, I take it?” she wonders.

            “Fuck you!”

            “Ooooh and feisty even when you’re not panicking, not like your friend. We’ll have to work on it.”

            “My friend?” Isaac wonders before understanding sets in and he screams, “Stiles?!”

            “Oh, I don’t think he’s going to answer for a while, sweetie.  You did quite a number on him.”

            “I what?”

            Keeping a firm grip on his wrist, she raises his hand in front of his face.  Blood is literally dripping down his arm. 

            _What the hell?_

The moment he realizes what must’ve happened, he’s fighting again. 

            “Stiles! Stiles, answer me! Stiles!”  

            When there’s no response, Isaac focuses on listening for a pulse; the one he finds is terrifyingly slow. 

            “I’ll go check on him,” she offers, “but only if you agree to cooperate.”

            He knows he’s too exhausted to fight. Besides, Stiles is hurt, and Isaac isn’t leaving without him.  He knows that whatever damage he did in his blind panic is bad: Stiles needs help, and this Alpha has no use for a dead beta.

            “Okay.”

            “See that chair?” she asks with a nod. 

            “Yeah.”

            “I’m going to loosen my grip on you, and you’re going to walk there with me. Understand?”

            “Yeah, sure, fine.”

            _Just go check on Stiles before I lose my mind. I’m still going to lose my mind when I see him. And we’re fucking captured by your crazy ass.  But one thing at a time.  Get him out of that damn basement and make sure he’s healing._

Isaac sits in the indicated chair, and she wraps a chain around his chest and arms, securing it with a padlock before leaving him to go down the stairs.  It’s a show of control more than anything; there are more chains she could have used if she wanted, she’s probably already guessed Isaac isn’t leaving here without Stiles.

“Please, I’n beegood,” Stiles promises weakly, voice garbled, and Isaac’s gut churns at the undeniable regression in the statement. 

“That’s the spirit,” the Alpha says in a sickeningly sweet voice.  “No more pain as long as you’re good,” she promises.

            “Than’ou, Alpha,” Stiles slurs wearily.

            He whimpers as the Alpha picks him up and ascends the stairs. Isaac stomach heaves as he takes in the bloodied mess he’s made of Stiles.  His wounds are healing, which is a good enough sign, but it’s clear from his pallor he’s lost a lot of blood.  Isaac turns his head to the side, retching violently.

            _Oh God what did I do? What did I do to you? I’m sorry, so fucking sorry, Stiles.  You of all people to get stuck in there with me. Did you even stay yourself long enough to fight back?_

            The tears of shame and anger and fear come unbidden as she lays Stiles on the couch. 

            “He’ll be fine in a couple hours,” the Alpha says. 

            “Let me leech the pain,” Isaac beseeches, but she begins to ease the pain herself.

            The guilt that washes over Isaac as he watches Stiles’ body slowly stitch itself back together is excruciating.  It combines with the confusion of wondering who this Alpha is, why she would take them, and how the hell Isaac is supposed to get away with a Stiles who’ll be too conditioned to come with him. 

            _Derek.  It’ll take Derek to get him away like this._

_They have to be looking for us.  Tracing Stiles’ locator.  They’ll do it. He’ll come for us._

_Come on, Derek.  Find us soon._

***************************************************

 

            They find the car deep in the woods, at the bottom of an embankment.  If they weren’t both werewolves, they’d be dead.  Even as it stands there’s a disconcerting amount of blood, a trail of it from the ruined car back up to the road where they were loaded into some vehicle that isn’t here now.

            They’re gone.

            Isaac and Stiles are gone.

Not gone; _Taken_. 

            And the terror that engulfs Derek is so intense he can’t even remember how to breathe. 

            _Hunters? Another pack? Who? Why? Where would they take them? Why did they want them alive? They must want them alive. Please, please keep them alive. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

“Come on, Derek, snap out of it!” Jackson insists, smacking Derek hard across the face.

            Derek growls.  “Fuck off.”

            “Dude, pull yourself together.  We’re gonna find them. It’s okay.”

            _We are. We going to find them. I can’t lose them. We’re going to find them._

_And then I’ll rip whoever took them limb from limb._

“Come on,” Jackson says.  “Deaton will track Stiles.  We’ll know where they are by dinnertime.  It’ll be fine.”

 

 

*******************************************************

 

            “Shhhh, now,” the Alpha soothes; he can feel her leeching pain and is deeply grateful at the mercy of it.  “Rest,” she bids him. “Heal.”

            “I’m trying, Alpha,” he promises opening his eyes to see an older Alpha, likely nearing forty, with auburn hair and piercing green eyes he meets for just the briefest moment before looking away quickly. “I don’t mean to be weak,” he goes on.  “I—”

            “You’re not being weak, my dear,” she tells him.  “You took quite a beating; I didn’t want you hurt so badly.”

            _Then why did you let him keep going?_

            “Thank you, Alpha,” he says aloud; it’s not his place to question, and if he angers her he’ll not only lose the pain relief she provides but likely incur more wrath.

            She’s quiet a moment, and he can feel her gaze as she studies him.

            “You’ve been well-trained, haven’t you?” she asks.

            “Yes, Alpha.  I can be good.”

            “And who taught you to be so good?”

            “My Alphas,” he answers, still not daring to use names though they’re not his Alphas anymore.  “My—my pack from—from before.”

            “The pack with that beta?” she wonders, looking behind her.

            There’s another beta gagged and chained to a chair.  It’s the beta who dealt his punishment earlier.

            _Isn’t he yours? Didn’t you instruct him to punish me? I don’t understand._

            “No, Alpha.”

            “Do you know that beta?”

            “No, Alpha.”

            “What’s the last thing you remember?”

            He shuts his eyes against the painful shame of the memory.

            “My Alphas left without me,” he replies despondently.  “I don’t know what I did, Alpha, but I can be good for you. I promise.  I can learn quick. Whatever you want I can—”

            “Shush now, it’s okay,” she assures him with a warm smile.  “I’ll give you a chance to be my beta if you want.”

            “Yes, Alpha please! I’ll be a good beta.  I can do anything. Anything you want.”

            “Really?” she asks, eyebrow raising in interest.  “Go on,” she bids him.

            “I can cook, Alpha, or I can clean or please you in bed or hunt for you or be hunted or help you train others betas or—”

            “You do mean ‘anything,’ don’t you?”

            “Yes, Alpha, whatever you want. I know my place.”

            “And what place is that?”

            “Serving my Alpha and my pack in whatever way is required of me.”

            “That is very, _very_ good to hear.”  


            “Thank you, Alpha.”

            “You will make an excellent beta.”

            “Thank you, Alpha!”

            He can’t suppress the small smile at the wonderful words of praise. 

            _I will be. I’ll be a good beta.  I’ll be the best.  I’ll be even better than I was for them.  I’ll be good enough to keep this time_ _; I promise._

            “But I have a task for you,” she says, “a test, to be sure you mean what you say.”

            “Anything.”

            _I do mean it. I do. I’ll show you. Anything you want._

            “You see the beta there,” she asks, gesturing to the restrained blond with blood from the punishment still on his hands.   “He doesn’t know his loyalty yet; he doesn’t learn as quick as you.  I think he may need a lesson.”

            _So he’s new, then, new like me.  You’re making a new pack? Did you leave your old betas? Will you leave me? How do I make sure you keep me?_

The questions can remain unanswered for now.  He knows the immediate answer to the most important wondering of how to please this Alpha.

            “How should I make him better?” he asks, sitting up and rising to his feet despite the soreness in his newly healed body. 

           

***********************************************************

 

            It’s a test all right.   She’s trying to see if this is some ploy on Stiles’ part.

            _If only, if only._

It could be.  He faked it with the Alphas.  But Isaac’s pretty sure that this is not a repeat performance.   There were several other options this time, and faked conditioning would never be Stiles’ first choice. 

            “Strike across his face,” she tells Stiles.  “Claws out.”

            He does as requested immediately, drawing a hiss of pain from Isaac as Stiles’ claws leave a bloody trail, narrowly missing Isaac’s eyes.  The Alpha smiles in satisfaction.

            “Break his arm.”

            “No, Stiles, come on. Don’t. Please don’t. Snap out of it!”

            Stiles doesn’t even pause, just reaches for Isaac’s arm as instructed.  The deft snap has Isaac’s radius breaking through the skin, accompanied with a shriek he can’t hold in.

            “Excellent, beta; that’s excellent.”

            “Thank you, Alpha.”

            “That’s enough; you can sit back on the couch now.”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            Isaac seethes as she saunters toward him.

            “Well, it seems I have one beta.”

            “One? Is that what you took us for? You lost the rest of your pack?”

            “I didn’t _lose_ them,” she retorts.  “They were _taken_ from me.”

            “And so you took us.”

            “Well I certainly wasn’t going to sit around and fall to Omega.”

            “You messed with the wrong pack.”

            “Is that right?”

            “They’re going to rip you apart when they find you.”

            Stiles growls at him, and she chuckles.  “He switches loyalty awfully fast for your pack to love you as much as you claim.”

            “He’s got PTSD; don’t flatter yourself.  He’ll snap out of it soon.”

            _Please, please let him snap out of it soon._

            “Oh, I think we both know it’s a little more than PTSD.”

            “He belongs with us whether he understands right now or not. They’ll come for us, both of us, and I swear the only shot in hell you have at surviving is to just let us go now.”

            “Big words from the beta at my mercy,” she says.  “Maybe I should have him teach you another lesson.”

            “Do whatever you want; I’m still not your beta, and he’s still in _my_ pack, not yours.”

            “We’ll see.”

 

************************************************************

 

            “What do you mean out of range?” Derek thunders, grabbing Deaton by the collar before he can stop himself, though in the next moment he lets go and turns away. 

            “Derek, calm down.”

            “Do not fucking tell me to calm down! They have been _taken_ and now you’re saying you can’t fucking tell me where they are?! What is the point of that goddamn chip if—”

            “It’s not a foolproof locator.  It has to have reception to pick up.  Right now they’re—”

            Jackson intercepts when Derek swings at Deaton, growling as he shifts.

            “Stop it! You’re not helping,” Jackson orders.  “Fucking breathe for two seconds and _think_.”

            “There’re only so many areas out of range, right?” Lydia wonders.  “Pretty much everything is in range nowadays.  We just need a coverage map and start searching all the gaps. They can’t be too far yet.”                       

            “Right,” Derek agrees, forcing himself to breathe deeply, willing the panic clenching at his chest to abate enough for him to function.  “Right. Search the gaps.  We’ll search the gaps.”

 

*******************************

 

            The Alpha lets him prepare dinner.  It’s simple: hot dogs and beans and canned peaches; he could do more, but there’s not much to choose from in her kitchen and this is what she asked of him.  She asks which dishes he can prepare best, promising to get ingredients for them when they move to the next place.  She feeds him when she’s done, allowing him a hot dog though she keeps the fruit for herself.  She even instructs him to give food to the bad beta, and it’s all he can do not to gape at the generous command. 

            _He’s disloyal. He threatens you.  Why would you be good to him?_

But she is.  She’s incredibly good to him.  She tries to reason with him, tell him what a good place he could have with her.  She explains how much more attention he’ll be given in a smaller pack.  She offers to call him by a name, but he won’t tell her one.  She promises they’re going to find a home somewhere in the East, promises that they’ll see all kinds of places before they settle down.  She promises she’ll be good to him—to both her betas—and make sure they’re both happy. 

            And the ungrateful little shit spits in her face.

            He growls and shifts, running at the offending beta in blind rage.

            “You will never disrespect my Alpha like that! She’s good! She—”

            “Stop it; that’s enough,” she tells him gently. 

            “Yes, Alpha,” he replies, arms dropping to his sides, though he’s pleased to see the handiwork he managed in the few punishing strikes he did land on the ungrateful bastard.

            “Thank you for your loyalty.”

            “Of course, Alpha.”

            “You like what I’m offering?”

            _It’s more than I ever imagined an Alpha would give.  It’s my job to make you happy, but you want to do the same for me? You want to give us names? You want to keep a small pack so you can care for us better? You want to show us beautiful things and find a good place for us to stay? I didn’t think Alphas so good existed.  And you’ll let me be your beta?_

“Because you can have all of that, too. You know that? That’s what I was offering when I said you could be my beta.”

He’s not sure if he decides to kneel or if his legs just buckle beneath him at the earnestly kind smile that accompanies the words. 

“Thank you, Alpha,” he says, trying to put as much gratitude in his voice as he can. 

_I don’t know what to say. I don’t have words for this. How do I show you? I’m not sure what you want, but I’ll give you anything, everything.  Please, please just keep me.  Please don’t let this be a test or a trick that I don’t understand. Please._

***********************************************************************

 

            “Seems like you’re the only one who misses home,” she taunts.

            _He doesn’t remember home,_ Isaac argues mentally, not giving in to the urge to satisfy her determination to argue with him.

“Does it bother you?” she wonders.  “Do you care that he can love another Alpha so quickly?”

            _He doesn’t love you. The wretch in his head loves you. There’s a difference._

“I bet your Alpha won’t be so happy to see his loyalty change so fast.”

            _Derek’s going to rip your head off for taking advantage of Stiles; assuming I don’t beat him to it._

“I wonder if he even misses either of you. It’s been nearly two days; he hasn’t come looking.”

            _He’s looking. He just hasn’t found us yet.  God help you when he does,_

“I bet he misses that one—Stiles you call him, right?”

            _Yes. His name is Stiles. Not fucking ‘beta’.  You could at least give him a damn name._

“What kind of name is that?” she asks.  “I’ll have to find a better one for him,” she muses, and Isaac’s a little unsettled at how close to his thoughts she is.

            “Doubt your Alpha misses you though; you’ve got a rebellious streak it seems like.”

            _And you’ve got a creepy cougar lady kidnapping streak it seems like. Wonder if your betas miss you, bitch?_

“What’s so horrible about the idea of being my beta? Am I really so bad?”

_You’re not my fucking Alpha.  You’re some desperate werewolf trying to keep from losing your power so you kidnapped us, which is better than turning innocents but still really fucked up._

“I’ll even let you have your husband to yourself when I don’t need you two.”

“What?” Isaac blurts before he can stop himself.

“You really thought I wouldn’t notice the rings?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Does it hurt that he doesn’t remember?”

_Shut up._

“He has no idea that he’s married to you. He doesn’t even know your name.”

_Shut up!_

“Of course, I’d probably want to forget my husband too, if he slashed me to ribbons and left me in a basement.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

She smacks him hard across the mouth as she chuckles at the outburst. 

“I see I hit a nerve.”

“Forget my Alpha; I’ll kill you myself.”

“Oh, sweetie I would love to see you try.  Because your little honey bunch in there,” she says, nodding toward the bedroom where she sent Stiles to read whatever he wanted, earning more of his gushing gratitude, “he would rip you apart if you so much as bared your teeth in my direction.”

Isaac seethes, saying nothing because he doesn’t want to rise to her bait and there’s more truth in the statement than he cares to admit.

_Come on, guys.  Find us before I spontaneously combust with rage.  Where the fuck are you?_

**********************************************************

 

            “Beta, is something wrong?” the Alpha asks as she walks into the bedroom.

            “Not anymore, Alpha,” he replies, determinedly tugging the offending ring off his finger and casting it aside. 

            “You don’t want that?”

            “I want to be _your_ beta.”

            _I don’t want an Alpha who forces me to be with a poorly trained, traitorous beta like that one.  If it’s true, if I’m paired with him but don’t remember, I’m glad.  What Alpha would want such a beta? No wonder he hasn’t come for us.  And you’re right. He hurt me.  He hurt me because he was angry, not because he was told to.  When I didn’t do anything wrong, and I begged him to stop.  I don’t want to be with him. I don’t want an Alpha who would make me be with him. I want a good Alpha.  I want you._

“I’d like that very much,” she tells him with a smile.  “In fact, once we’ve settled and start a pack in earnest, you can be my Second.”

            His mouth drops open in shock at the suggestion.  He scrambles from the bed to his knees, head turned aside to bare his throat in the best way he knows to show his absolute eagerness to serve in such a place. 

            “Yes, Alpha! Please! I’ll be a good Second.  Anything you want. _Everything_ you want.  I’ll serve the pack and protect the pack and—”

“I’m sure you will,” she interrupts, hand coming to caress Stiles’ cheek.  “And such devotion, such loyalty, deserves a proper distinction,” she tells him.   “It deserves a name.”

“A—a name?” he repeats, still dumbfounded at her esteem for him after he’s done so little to prove his worth.

“The other beta calls you Stiles,” she says.  “Would you like to keep that?”  
            “No, Alpha,” he answers, and it was the right answer because she beams at him.

“A new one then,” she says.  “A new name for your new pack—for your new rank.”

“Yes, Alpha, please.”

“Damon, the most loyal of friends in Greek mythology,” she says after considering a moment.  “Do you like that?”

“Yes, Alpha!  I’ll be loyal, too!” he replies readily, barely reining in a giddy laugh at the thrill of a name of his own.  “Thank you, Alpha! Thank you!”

 

******************************************************************

 

            Isaac can’t say he’s surprised when she takes Stiles to bed with her, but foreseeing the abuse doesn’t make it any easier to listen to.  As grateful as Isaac is that she’s not being forceful or causing Stiles pain, his stomach still churns as she coos praises and gives him directives as he eagerly expresses his willingness for anything she’ll “let” him do. 

            _This can’t happen. I can’t just sit here. I can’t._

But she was right to say Isaac will never defeat her with Stiles at her side. He needs backup.

            _But how long do I wait for them? Why haven’t they already come? Maybe the chip isn’t working.  Something has to be wrong or they’d be here.  They’d all be coming for us like bats out of hell if they knew where we were.  Why can’t they find us?_

In the end he can’t stand sitting here helpless anymore, he strains against the chains, shifting fully and struggling with everything he’s worth.  When they clatter to the floor, he’s sure she’s heard, but the sounds from the bedroom don’t cease or wane in the slightest. 

            _Fucked up as it is, it does make one hell of a distraction_ _._

_But I can’t just leave him here._

He moves toward the bedroom door but pauses with his hand hovering over the handle.

_I don’t want to leave him, but if I’m going to get us away from her do I have a choice?_

_What do I do?_   _How can I leave him? Even if I’m going to get help, what if she moves him? What if we can’t find them again?_

_I can’t leave him._

_But I can’t just stay and watch her abuse him._

_And I can’t take him with me._

_What am I supposed to do?_

_God, what the fuck am I supposed to do?_

He feels like a traitor as he lets his hand drop back to his side.  Crushing guilt envelops him as he walks out the door.  When he takes off running, it’s all he can do to hold back tears of anxiety and frustration and terror.

            _I’m coming back for you. I’m not leaving you here. We’ll get you back this time, Stiles. I swear.  I just don’t know what else to do._

***************************************************************************

 

            Damon relishes the feeling of elation that courses through him at the unending praise from the Alpha.  She says he’s doing everything right; she holds him close, caresses him lovingly, and lets him derive pleasure from their interaction, too.  She’s treating him as though he’s a partner in this, not just a means to her gratification, and he’s overwhelmed yet again with how wonderfully kind his new Alpha is.

            When she’s finally had enough, she lies back on the bed, sated and breathless and smiling, and it’s all he can do to mask the pride bubbling inside him.

            _See how happy I can make you? See how good I can be? I’ll do everything I can to repay your kindness, Alpha. Everything. Anything. Thank you for keeping me._

His bliss evaporate abruptly as the Alpha tenses and growls in displeasure, glaring through the bedroom wall as though she could see the bad beta held out in the den.  Damon doesn’t understand for a moment, until he realizes the other beta _isn’t_ there anymore.  The only two pulses in the house are the Alpha’s and his own.

“I’ll find him, Alpha,” he offers, rising immediately.  “I’ll bring him back to you.”

_I’ll teach him to appreciate you, punish him for leaving, tear him part for ruining a such a moment of relaxation for his Alpha._

“No,” she orders, and he freezes, turning immediately.  “We won’t chase him; we’ll leave.”

“Yes, Alpha,” he agrees readily though he doesn’t understand.

“He’s going for his Alpha,” she expounds, understanding Damon’s confusion.  “You heard what he threatened his Alpha would do.”

“I’ll protect you, Alpha. He won’t touch you. I’ll—”

“I don’t want to watch him hurt you, Damon, and however loyal you might be, you’re no match for an Alpha,” she tells him, rising from the bed.  “More to the point, I’m no match for an Alpha with a full pack.  He would take you away from me.”

Damon whines at the thought. She smiles at him sadly, bringing her hand up to cup his cheek tenderly.

“I couldn’t bear that,” she tells him sincerely.  “Only a few days and you’ve proven such a good beta—perhaps the best I’ve ever had the fortune to claim.”

“Thank you, Alpha,” he answers, voice barely a whisper at the intense endorsement. “You—you’re so good to me. I—I want to stay.” He drops gracefully to his knees daring to plea, “Please don’t let him take me away.”

“Oh, Damon,” she answers, pulling him back to his feet.  “I won’t let them hurt you; we’ll run. We’ll start a pack of our own.  I’ll protect you.”

“Thank you, Alpha. Thank you.”

_And I’ll protect you.  Whatever I can do. Whatever the promise of a simple beta is worth, I swear I’ll protect you._

 

            **************************************************************

            They’re more secluded than Isaac thought; it seems an eternity before Isaac finds the first house. No one’s here.  From the looks of it, it’s someone’s hunting cabin, and no one’s been around for a while.  He breaks in, searching desperately for a phone, but there’s not one to be found.  He does find a rack of keys by the back door and an ATV under a tarp in the shed.  He tears off in search of the next house, praying he’ll get in touch with the pack and they’re not too far for help to come quickly.

 

****************************************************************

            “Derek you _have_ to sleep,” Scott urges. “We need to head back and—”

            “Don’t tell me what to do!” Derek snaps.  “I’m fucking fine, McCall.  Call Lydia and tell her this zone is clear.  Ask her where we’re headed next.”

            “Only if you promise to sleep while I drive.”

            “No.”

            “Derek—”

            “I’m fine.”

            “ _Derek—”_

“I’m fine!”

            “No you’re not!” Scott retorts angrily.  “You’re worried as hell and exhausted and you’re practically dead on your feet! What the fuck are you going to do if you actually find them and we need to fight off their kidnappers!? You’re practically a sitting duck, man.  You can’t keep going like this.”

            “I’m--”

            “So help me God, I will call Allison and get tranquilizer darts, Derek. I’m not kidding anymore.  You’ve got to stop.”

            _I can’t.  How can you ask me to stop? How can you expect me to rest for one fucking second when they could be farther and farther from me every moment? I am losing my goddamn mind, can’t you see that? Two days; it’s been two fucking days.  And what if that turns into two weeks and then two months and then—and then—I can’t fail Stiles like this again; I can’t fail Isaac. I can’t fail the pack. I have to find them.  I have to know they’re okay. I need them. I can’t fucking so much as breathe without them. How could I possibly sleep?_

“Hey, hey!” Scott all but shouting.  “Shut up; look at me!”

            It’s only then that Derek realizes he’s been talking out loud.

            “You are not failing anyone, okay? You’re working your ass off, but you’re no good to anybody if you go ‘til you drop.  Just a couple hours.  The others will still be looking; I’ll still be looking. You sleeping won’t stop the search, okay? It’ll just get you ready to help when we find them because we’re going to find them and they’re going to be fine.”

            _How many times did you say that after the Alphas took Stiles? It wasn’t true then.  You can’t be sure it’s true now._

_Oh, God, what if it’s not true now._

_I can’t lose them._

_I can’t._

_I’d rather fucking die._

“You know you’re the Second right now, don’t you?” Derek wonders, realizing he’s allowing Scott to lead him back toward the car like a toddler.

            “Shut up,” Scott replies.

            “You’re the Second,” Derek replies.  “With Isaac missing it makes you Second if—”

            “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

            _It will if I can’t find them; it will depending on who or what I have to fight to protect them—or avenge them.  I’m not going home without them.  That’s all there is too it._

It’s morbidly calming to realize how ardently he means the words.  It’s the idea of facing a world without the two of them that makes Derek’s mind run rampant with panic.  The realization that he doesn’t have to—that he wouldn’t _have_ to face that—settles something in the back of his mind.  The universe according to Derek Hale suddenly has room for only two possibilities: we all three go home or none of us do.

            Until he hears Isaac’s panicked voice on the other end of the line moments later, it never occurs to Derek to wonder if he could handle just two out of three.  


 

*************************************************************

 

            “There, there, turn there!” Isaac directs.

He, Derek, and Scott are barreling down the road as fast as the Camaro can handle.  Jackson, the Sheriff, and the Argents are headed this way, too, just in case.  They weren’t as close and no one was willing to wait for them.  The speed down the dirt drive to the little house, but the moment its aged white exterior comes into view Isaac panics.

The red truck that set in the driveway only hours ago is gone.

“No!” he shouts, unable to hold back the supplication. “No, no, no! They can’t be gone! They _can’t_ be!”

He’s scrambling out of the car before Derek even brings it to a complete stop, nearly tearing the door off its hinges in his desperation to get inside.  He shrieks Stiles’ name even though there’re no pulses in the house, even though Stiles doesn’t even fucking answer to his name right now, even though his throat is starting to hurt with the desperate repetition of the scream.

_They can’t be gone. They can’t be._

He ransacks the house, venting grief and frustration more than anything. It’s not as though he expects some clue to where she’s taken Stiles to be lurking under a nightstand.

But Stiles’ ring _is_ under the nightstand, and all the anger drains from Isaac at the sight of it, leaving only the crushing culpability that brings Isaac to his knees.  He feels like the sobs are being ripped from his chest, but he can’t stop.

_How could I leave him here at her mercy? How could I risk it? He’s gone again, and it’s my fault. It’s my fault. What was I thinking?_

            “Breathe, Isaac, breathe!” Derek’s urging, though he’s panicking too.  “We’ll find him.  Come on, deep breaths, please, Isaac.”

            “Isaac!” Scott yells.  “Isaac, there’s blood down here; did you see him after this? Was he okay? What did she—”

            “Blood?!” Derek yells back, dragging Isaac with him as he rises to his feet, seemingly unwilling to let go but unable to go investigate.

            “Yeah, like a lot of blood, Derek; it’s—”

            “Me,” Isaac chokes out in a sob.  “It was me.”

            “What?”

            “It was me; I hurt him. It was me,” Isaac wails.

            And it’s too much, this guilt combined with the realization that he’s abandoned Stiles, however unintentional those acts may have been.  He can’t even think, can barely breathe as the overwhelming panic and shame grips him tight.  He hears them asking questions, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about, but he’s too fucking wrecked to give them the answers they want, babbling incoherently through tears.

            “Dammit, Isaac, you have to talk!” Derek insists, shaking him. 

            It’s clear the moment he does it, Derek didn’t _plan_ to shake Isaac, but he did all the same.  He lets go like a man burned as Isaac whimpers and pulls away.

            “Jesus Christ, Derek, he’s freaking out; don’t be an asshole!” Scott rebukes. 

            “I’m not—I didn’t—we don’t have _time_ for this—we—I—goddammit!” Derek rages, rising to his feet and walking away, anger rolling off him in waves.

            “Isaac, I know it’s a lot, okay? It’s too fucking much, but if we’re going to fix it, we have to know the whole story, and you’re the only one who can tell us, okay? So just—just deep breaths and calm down some and then you can help us fix it.  It’ll be okay.  We’ll figure it out. We always figure it out.”

            _But what if we don’t this time?_            

 

**********************************************************

 

            Guilt floods over Derek as he watches Scott try to calm and comfort Isaac because Derek’s failing _miserably._

_I shook him. What the fuck? I’m supposed to be the one with my shit together. I’m not the one who was kidnapped.  I’m the fucking Alpha.  I’m still not in fucking control, and I’m demanding that Isaac be? What the hell is wrong with me?_

Isaac gradually manages to get the story out.  They were locked in the basement.  He blacked out so he doesn’t remember, but he ripped Stiles to shreds in his blind panic.  It’s what started the regression in the first place. It’s the reason Stiles was even more hesitant to trust Isaac over the Alpha. 

            “It’s not your fault,” Scott assures him.

            “I made it all worse!”

            “If you hadn’t been with him, you couldn’t have come for help.”

            “I still lost him! They’re not here, Scott! She took him God knows where, and—” 

            “We’ll keep tracing the transmitter.  Maybe she’ll take him somewhere in range.  You got the plates off the truck right? The sheriff will put out a BOLO.   We’re going to find them, Isaac because you gave us a place to start. You didn’t fuck it up; you gave us what we need to go after them. It’s okay.”

            “Scott’s right; we’ll get him back,” Derek swears.  

            _We have to or we’re both going to lose our fucking minds._

 

*************************************************************

 

Damon watches quietly out the window, wondering how far they’ll need to go to outrun his old Alpha.  He can’t help himself from looking behind them every once in a while, convinced his old pack is closing in.

            “We’re okay,” Alpha promises. “We got enough of a head start, and I know how to run.”

            _Do you? I suppose you had to run from whomever or whatever took your other betas._

“I won’t let them take you away from me,” she swears again.

            _But you lost your other betas. What if you can’t fight them?_

“Thank you, Alpha,” he says aloud. 

            They don’t stop driving until they’re nearly out of gas.  She pulls the truck into a parking garage, backing it into a spot before getting out and instructing Damon to follow and bring her belongings.  She chooses an older sedan, using a straightened coat hanger to unlock the door.  Damon gets the impression she’s done this plenty of times before.

            _How long have you been running, Alpha? How long will we have to keep running?_

He decides it doesn’t matter as long as his old pack doesn’t catch up and take him away.  The idea of the wrath he’d incur after trying so hard to stay with a new Alpha is petrifying; he thinks he might rather just die in the fight.  Maybe he could buy enough time for her to get away; it seems a good repayment for all her kindness so far. 

            _Loyal even unto death,_ he thinks, barely stopping the smile at the sentiment.  _I’ll live up to my name, Alpha. I promise._

*****************************************************************

 

            “He has to be in more or less one place for more than five minutes for the tracking device to register,” Deaton says.  “They must be on the move or out of service area.”

            “Keep checking,” Derek orders, as though Deaton isn’t just as invested in this search. 

            “Wait,” Deaton says before Derek can hang up the phone.

            “What is it?”

            “Here—little town off Interstate Five.  I’m sending you the coordinates the chip indicated, but he’s not there anymore.  The signal’s gone now.  They were barely stationary long enough for a signal to come in.”

            “It’s a starting point,” Derek answers.  “Let us know if he shows up again.  When you call to give the coordinates to the sheriff, see if there’s any way they can get surveillance or something from the area.”

            _That’s how it works in cop shows, but I get the feeling it might be more complicated in real life. Nothing’s ever simple._

“Sure,” Deaton agrees.  “Let someone else, drive a while, Derek. You sound exhausted.”

            “Told you,” Scott mutters from the back seat, and Derek glares at him in the rearview mirror.

            “I’m fine.”

 

**********************************************************

 

            Isaac zones out completely, staring with unseeing eyes out the window as they fly down the interstate.  He’s lost in thought and guilt and worry until Scott shouts at Derek and the car jerks back onto the road, horns honking around them. 

            “Pull over,” Scott orders.   “Right fucking now, Derek. I mean it.”

            “I’m fine!”

            “You’re gonna get us all killed.  You’re falling asleep going ninety miles an hour down the interstate. Pull. Over.”

            “Please, Derek,” Isaac adds, too tired to get angry with him, but still recognizing that Scott’s right.

            “I’m fine,” Derek mutters stubbornly though he does as requested.

He turns on the hazards and pulls into the emergency lane.  Isaac shifts to the backseat, letting Derek have shotgun as Scott takes the wheel.   He can’t say he’s surprised when Derek’s out cold no more than three minutes after they pull back onto the road.

“How long since he slept?” Isaac wonders.

“He hasn’t.  Not since you’ve been missing.”

“What?”

“You really expected any other answer? He’s been losing his mind, dude.”

“Guess I would too.”

“You kinda are,” Scott replies.  “You should sleep, too.  I’ll wake you guys up if anything changes. We’re still sixty miles out from the last GPS ping on the chip. Neither of you are any good to him stretched so thin.”

“What about you; you okay?”

“I wouldn’t call it okay, but relatively speaking I’m good.  Get some rest.”

 

***************************************************************

 

            “Damon.”

            “Yes, Alpha?” he answers.

            “When I asked what you would do for me, you mentioned training other betas.”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “You’ve done that before?”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “I think we may need to take drastic measures; I won’t give the bite without consent, but maybe if we found a good candidate we could convince them of the merit.  Would you help me?”

            “Yes, Alpha. Of course.”

 

*********************************************************************

 

            “New coordinates?” Derek hopes groggily as he answers the phone. 

They’ve been searching around the town Stiles was last in for nearly two hours, but there’s no sign of them.  They’ve got no way to know for sure if they stayed or kept going or which direction they continued on in.  They need another set of coordinates.

“They’re nearly in Oregon; they’ve been in the same three mile area for ten minutes; I’m texting it to you now.”

_Please just fucking stay there, Stiles.  Snap out of it. Get away. Something.  This goose chase has got to stop._

********************************************************************

 

            She says her name is Julie.  She’s got long blonde hair and a tall, lean build.  Her eyes are red from crying, but they’re still a pretty, bright green.  Damon wonders if she reminds the Alpha of another beta because the Alpha keeps gazing at Julie with a sad smile.  She’s kind to her, explaining that they don’t want to hurt her.  She says they’ll take good care of her, make her powerful, give her a life better than that of a simple human.  The young woman isn’t interested though; she’s terrified, and Damon isn’t sure if he’s permitted to try and explain that she shouldn’t be.  She should be very, _very_ grateful that such a good Alpha wants her.  It could be much, _much_ worse.

            _I’ll explain when I train her.  It’ll help her learn why she needs to be good._

The deviate from the main road, winding down two lane highways until they find an old, clearly abandoned house far from the road. 

            “This will do,” the Alpha says, “just a night or two, and we can shift and escape quickly through the woods if we need.  With any luck your previous Alpha has given up following us.  We could be anywhere by now.  He has other betas.”

            _I hope so.  You’re not strong enough to protect us yet._

It’s all the more reason to turn and train this Julie as quickly as they can.

            “Not that you’d be easily replaced,” she praises with a fond smile that makes Damon blush.  “Bring Julie in with us,” the Alpha instructs with a nod to the girl; he tries not to be jealous that the human’s already been granted the privilege of being referred to by name.  “We need to talk to her a little more.  We need to help her understand.”

            No matter that the Alpha says, Julie doesn’t seem to listen.  She shouts curses and insults.  She begs to be let go.  She doesn’t cooperate, doesn’t listen, won’t stop crying, and Damon can see the Alpha’s patience wearing as thin as his own.  She finally sighs and turns away. 

            “I didn’t want to do this,” she informs Julie.  “I’d hoped you could be reasonable.”

            “Reasonable?! I got kidnapped by two freaks who—”

            “That’s enough!” the Alpha barks.  “You would be _lucky_ to be as powerful as us.  Most would _beg_ for this gift.”

            “Yeah, well, I don’t want it. I want to go home!”

            “So that you can return to your mundane, pathetic human existence? When I’m offering you a whole new world of power and possibilities?”

            “Please, I just want to go home.  Just let me go.”

            “You just don’t understand yet, that’s all.  I’m going to have to let Damon teach you what a gift you’re giving up.  He’ll help you see that you do want the bite, won’t you Damon?”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “What does that mean?” Julie demands.  “What are you going to do to me?”

            “Nothing,” the Alpha promises sweetly.  “I’m going out for a run, and Damon will try to explain your options better than I’ve been able to.”

            She looks fearfully from the Alpha to Damon, assuming correctly that this won’t be a normal conversation.

            “I want to turn you,” the Alpha tells her, “but I want your consent.  I want you to understand the gift I’m offering.”

            “I—”

            “Damon, make her understand.”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            She disappears out the door, leaving Damon alone with the human.  He tries not to smile at being the one in power, if only for the moment, but his lips stretch wide in a grin anyhow.  The human whimpers as he takes a few steps toward her.

            “Please just let me go,” she beseeches.

            “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he informs her.

            “I do. I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home. I want—”

            “No,” he interrupts flatly.  “You were picked by the Alpha.  She would not have chosen you lightly.  It is an honor.”

            “I—”

            “Say it,” he commands.  “It is an honor to be picked.”

            “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did she brainwash you? You’re—”

            He strikes her hard across the face, though he doesn’t let her claws sink in; her weak human flesh wouldn’t heal quickly enough.  He’ll work up to the blood if he needs to.  She yelps in pain.

            “Say it,” he orders again.

            “No! It’s not a fucking _honor._ It’s a fucking _nightmare!_ ”

            He strikes her again, and then four more times before she finally agrees.

            “Fine, okay? It’s an honor to be kidnapped by your psycho—”

            He grabs her by the throat, raising her from the floor as she chokes.

            “You will _never_ insult the Alpha,” he tells her.  “You understand?”

            “I—can’t—breathe.”

            “I said do you understand!?” he thunders, and she shakes her head frantically. 

            He lets go, watching her fall hard to the floor as she sucks in breath.

            “Say it.”

            “It’s an honor to be picked.”

            “Good,” he praises with a small smile.  “See? You can be taught.  It’s the first sign of a good beta.”

            “I’m not a fucking good beta.  I’m human. I’m Julie. I’m—”

            “You’re right,” Stiles agrees.  “You’d be a horrible beta right now. But you want to be good, don’t you? You want me to teach you to be good.”

            “No, I want to go home. I want—”

            He kicks her, misjudging his strength against her human body and hearing the snap as her ribs crack.

            _Too much. Be careful.  She has to stay whole enough to request the bite when the Alpha is back._

“Stop!” she begs.

            “You want to be good.”

            “Please don’t do this.”

            He kicks her again, aiming for her shoulder this time, not wanting to puncture a lung with her still human.

            “Are you stupid? Or just deaf? It’s not difficult! Repeat it!”

            The progress of teaching her to repeat the basic facts and rules is excruciatingly slow.  She’s not unintelligent, just stubborn.  He wishes the Alpha would turn her now, make her more resilient so the training could move at a faster, harsher pace.  But the Alpha wants consent, and it’s his job to get it.  He’ll just have to practice patience. 

            “Good betas give their Alphas anything they want,” she tells him, “and mine wants for me to request to be turned.  It’s a gift I don’t deserve; I should be grateful for it.”

            A bit of blood drips from the wound on her lip as she finishes the statement, and he reaches to wipe it away.

            “Very good,” he tells her.  “So what will you do when the Alpha comes back?”

            “Beg for the bite.”

            “Good.”

           

*************************************************************

 

            “You did an excellent job with her today, Damon,” the Alpha says as they ride. 

            “Thank you, Alpha.”

            Julie lies sleeping in the back.  The bite is taking.  The wounds covering her are starting to slowly but surely heal.  She begged as he’d told her to, and the Alpha had been absolutely delighted with him.

            “You’ll continue to train her,” Alpha says.  “I trust you with it.”

            “Thank you, Alpha. I’ll make her good. I promise.”

            “I know you will.” She studies him a moment or two more, and he tenses under the scrutiny.  “What’s wrong?” she asks. 

            “Do you—do you know how many were in my old pack? Are you strong enough to—not that I think you’re weak, Alpha, you’re not; I know you’re not; I just—I—I don’t want them to take me away.”

            “I see,” she replies, and he hates the way his words bring a crease of displeasure to her brow. 

            “I don’t mean to—”

            “I’m not offended by the question, Damon; it’s fair.”

            “Thank you, Alpha.”

            “He had at least four or five betas from what I could tell; I didn’t spend much time looking.  I’d been alone too long by the time I came across a pack.  I took the first chance I could to get you and the other beta away.”

            He glances to the backseat.

            _We need more betas.  If he has at least three…_

“Give it time,” Alpha says as though she can read his mind.  “We’ll get stronger.”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

 

*******************************************

 

            They stop at a hotel this time in a part of town full of humans who think themselves dangerous.  She tells him he can’t shift, so Damon digs one set of claws deep in his thigh to maintain his control and the other to pull Julie from the backseat and escort her into the room behind the Alpha.  She hasn’t spoken since she thanked the Alpha for the bite.  She doesn’t speak as Stiles prepares food for them while the Alpha leeches Julie’s pain.  She says nothing when Stiles reluctantly leaves the Alpha’s bed once she’s done with him for the night, instructing him to make sure the girl doesn’t escape.  He sits in the chair opposite her at the small table by the curtained window.  They’ve sat in silence nearly ten minutes when she gets up to go to the bathroom, and when she comes back she’s holding up the edge of her shirt, revealing the bite mark left there.

            “What’s happening?” she wonders.

            There’s a tinge of black in the blood leaking slowly from the wound.  It’s not a good sign, but it’s not a bad one either. 

            “You immune system is resisting the change.”

            “So I might not turn.”

            “You might die instead.”

            “Those are the options? Turn or die?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh.”

            She studies him where he sits as she takes her position across from him again.  Now that the anger and rebellion have disappeared, her expression just seems sad, resigned. 

            “She’s a good Alpha,” he reminds her though he’s said it countless time.  “You’re lucky. You’ll see.”

            _It shouldn’t be so hard to make you grateful.  Why can’t you understand? She’s so much better than she has to be, so much kinder.  Maybe once you’re turned you’ll understand better.  If not, I’ll keep teaching you.  You’ll see._

“Does she make you do that every night?” she asks, eyes going to the bed where the Alpha now lies sleeping soundly. 

            “She’s allowed me to every night so far,” he answers.   “I’ll teach you to be useful too.  She may want both to—”

            “No,” Julie replies bluntly, the most gumption she’s shown since before she was bitten, and Damon’s quick to strike her to silence, not wanting to let the traitorous rebellion start building in her again.

            “You’ll serve your Alpha and your pack in whatever way is required of you.”

            “I’m not some whore for her to use to—”

            “You will serve your Alpha and your pack in whatever way s required of you,” he hisses, resisting the urge to yell for fear of waking the Alpha, and striking her hard across her face again.

            “Maybe I don’t have a choice about being her beta, but it’s still my body to—”

            “Your body belongs to your pack,” he tells her, rising to his feet and yanking her up by the arm.  “You will make use of it in every way you’re allowed.”

            “Over my dead body—”

            “You defiant little shit, you don’t deserve anything as sweet as death,” he informs her, shoving her toward the bathroom, knowing he’ll likely wake the Alpha but hoping most of the punishment will fall on Julie for needing the lesson and not Damon for providing it.

            She struggles, clawing at him with still-human nails as he corners her in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

            “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demands, trying to hide the fear in her voice with anger and failing.

            “Making you better,” he replies.  “Say thank you.”

            “You are such a fucked up piece of—”

            “Say thank you!” he commands twisting her arm behind her as he shoves her hard into the wall.  Blood spouts from her nose as he face collides with the tile.  “Thank you, Damon for teaching me to be better. Say it.”

            “Fuck you! I—”

            “Damon!” the Alpha scolds, yanking the bathroom door open.

            He reacts instantly to the clear anger in the Alpha’s voice, jerking Julie to the floor with him as he kneels. 

            “I didn’t mean to wake you, Alpha. I—”

            “What were you doing?”

            “Teaching, Alpha.”

            “Teaching what? Explain.”

            “She thought she shouldn’t be used in bed, Alpha. I was trying to make her better in case you wanted to—”

            “He was going to fucking rape me, you sick motherfucker! So that I’d be docile enough when you wanted to take your turn doing God know what with me! What the hell is wrong with you monsters! I—”

            He waits for the Alpha to strike her, and moves to stop the insults himself when she doesn’t.  The Alpha’s hand catches his wrist mid-swing, and he freezes instantly.

            “That’s enough, Damon.”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “Julie,” she says gently, bending down to stare the terrified, enraged girl in the eyes.  “I’m sorry he scared you.”

            _Sorry? You’re sorry. You’re apologizing to a beta? Apologizing for something I did?_

_Which means I was wrong._

_I was bad._

“Alpha, please, I misunderstood,” he begins immediately. “I thought—I thought you would want—I’m sorry, Alpha. I’m sorry. I was only trying to—”

            “Hush, Damon.  That’s enough. I’m speaking to Julie.”

            He silences himself with a whine, hangs his head, and waits for the wrath that will come.

            “He was with a pack that was much stricter than I am,” she says.  “I told him I wanted help training you, but I didn’t know he would take it this far without permission.”

            _You told me to train her. This is how you train betas. You teach until they understand.  I thought I had permission. I thought this was what you wanted. How else am I supposed to make her good? I don’t understand._

“Yeah, well, you’re little buddy beta’s a sick cookie.”

            “He’s never had a good Alpha before; it’s not his fault.  He’s learning to have some freedom just as you need to learn some obedience.  You two could help one another.”

            “Ha, yeah, right. After he tries to rape me, we’ll be great friends, I’m sure.”

            “He is your packmate and your Second.  You will respect that. And Damon?”       “Yes, Alpha?”

            “You will ask direct permission for any future lessons you wish to teach Julie; is that understood?”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “There,” she says with a smile to Julie.  “Better?”

            “This is so fucked up.”

            “I’ve been lenient because you were frightened,” the Alpha says, “but you best remember to respect the gift you’ve been given.  You were doing well just yesterday. Don’t let all that progress go to waste. Be good if you want my continued protection from Damon’s harsher lessons, you understand?”

            Her eyes dart fearfully to Damon before she replies quietly, “Yes, Alpha.”

            “Good girl,” the Alpha praises. 

            Her stomach growls and the Alpha pauses as she turns.

            “Wishing now you’d eaten what I offered you?”  Julie doesn’t answer and the Alpha wonders, “Would you like me to go and get us something? Maybe we could all use a midnight snack after this little misunderstanding.”

            _She’s offering you food. Good food. A special trip to make you less afraid. What’s wrong with you? Be grateful!_

“I—I’m not hungry,” she lies, eyes darting to Stiles.

            “Not hungry? Or afraid to be here with Damon?”

            “Could I come with you, Alpha?”

            “No, you’ll stay here,” she answers, “and Damon will do nothing to hurt you.  Absolutely nothing, Damon. Am I clear?”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            She grabs the keys from the nightstand and walks to the door, turning before she leaves.

            “But if you try to leave us,” she tells Julie.  “I _will_ find you, and Damon will have free reign to punish you as he sees fit.”

********************************************************       

 

“How far are we from those coordinates?”

“A few hours.  Let’s just hope they stay this time.”

_Please just fucking stay still for once.  Please._

********************************************************

 

            She punches him hard in the face almost the moment the door shuts behind the Alpha.  He growls in rage when he realizes he can’t fight back, can’t teach her the horrible things that happen when you strike your superiors until the Alpha returns.

            “You will pay for it later,” he warns.  “Stop right now.”

            “Make me,” she taunts, kicking him hard in the groin before he can dodge it, and she rains down more blows as he falls to his knees. 

            She’s nearly a full wolf now.  Her hits land firm as he retreats, unsure if blocking her counts as hurting her. 

            “You’re really just going to let me wail on you? After all the shit you’ve done to me, you’re going to stand there and take it.”

            “I can’t hurt you until she comes back.”

            “And if I beat you to a pulp before then?”

            _You won’t. I’ll retreat like a coward to the bathroom.  Your strength would wane too much anyway; you’re not able to shift, so it’s unlikely you could render me unconscious._

“She told me not to hurt you.”

            “You are so screwed in the head,” she informs him, giving up her assault to plop into her chair. 

            “I’m loyal,” he counters.

            “You have Stockholm syndrome.”

            “I’m not a prisoner. I want to be here.”

            “Why the fuck would you want to be here?”

            “Because she’s a good Alpha.”

            She studies him a moment, taking in the words.

            “She said your alphas before were stricter.”

            “Yes.”

            “They taught you to train betas like this?”

            “Yes.”

            “They trained _you_ like this?”

            “No.”

            “No?”

            “This Alpha is lenient.  She’s patient. She cares. She explains. She apologizes.  They weren’t as kind as the Alpha’s allowed me to be to you.”

            “Kind?”

            “Yes. Very.”

            “God, you are so fucked up.”

            “I’m a good beta.”

            “You’re a brainwashed beta,” she tells him. “And if this is how this life goes, picking the lesser of two evils, I don’t want it.  I wish the bite had fucking killed me.  With all the shit Alphas have put you through, can you blame me for wanting to just be dead rather than live like this?”

            “No; Derek says it’s okay to want things.”

            The words are out of his mouth before he even intends to say them.

            “Who’s Derek?” she asks.

            “I don’t know,” he replies confusedly.  “I—I don’t know anyone named Derek. I—”

            _Derek._

_Derek says it’s okay to want things._

_I want to be good._

_Derek says to do things that make me happy._

_Derek._

_Derek._

He finds himself staring down at the finger that was once home to the ring he left back in California. 

            _Derek and Isaac._

_Derek and Isaac and Stiles._

_What the hell is a Stiles?_

_ME._

_I’m a Stiles._

_My name is Stiles. I’m Stiles._

_Derek_   _and Isaac and Stiles._

_And Dad and Scott and Lydia and Jackson._

_Where are they? Where am I? What happened?_

_Car wreck. Wreck and then the basement and then—_

He closes his eyes against the rush of memories that cascade in as the pieces connect.  When he opens them again, staring at the terrified, tortured girl across the room, it takes every ounce of control he has to hold back sobs of shame.

            “Oh fuck, what did I do?”

           

             

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo yeah, next chapter is going to skip just a few days and pick up with the aftermath of this clusterfuck just FYI


	16. it's the hurt I hide that fuels the fires inside me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/3 for the Kidnapped Arc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how they say things sometimes get worse before they get better? :/

            “Hey, Dad?” Stiles says, coming in the living room where his dad’s taking in the evening news.  “Food’s done.”

            “Thanks, kiddo.”

            It’s nothing fancy, just hot dogs and macaroni, but it’ll do. Stiles honestly didn’t feel much like putting effort into anything more.  His dad studies him from across the table, still trying to figure out exactly what’s wrong and how to fix it.  He can’t though, none of them can, so there’s no point in telling them what’s wrong; in fact, telling will probably just make it worse for everyone.

            Stiles jumps when the doorbell rings, and Dad goes to answer it.

            _Scott._ He guesses mentally; it’s a game he plays.  He’s right about four out of five times, but he figures it’s mostly just luck.

            “Hey, sheriff,” Isaac’s voice greets quietly.

            “Hey.”

            “Can I—uh—talk to Stiles a minute? I just—”

            “You’re welcome here unless he tells you to go,” the sheriff answers.  “You know that.”

            “Thanks.”

            Isaac walks in the room with his head held low, like he doesn’t deserve to be here, and part of Stiles agrees that he doesn’t.  He’s fiddling with something, and the moment Stiles sees the glint of silver he knows what it is.

            _Why are you here? What do you want? Haven’t you figured out yet that I can’t deal with any of you right now?  Just go home to Derek.  Leave me alone. Let me deal._

*****************************************************************

 

            Isaac’s pretty sure the silent treatment is worse than anything Stiles could yell at him.  He knows he deserves whatever Stiles might scream and any swings Stiles wants to take.  He wishes Stiles would do it, lose his cool and vent his anger or frustration or whatever’s left over from his time with that Alpha and just come the fuck home.

            But he’s starting to wonder if Stiles is coming home at all.  It’s been four days since they found the eviscerated corpse of the Alpha.  She was still warm when they found her, but there was no sign of Stiles or the other beta whose scent lingered in the motel room.  Stiles turned up at the sheriff’s house a day later saying only that the other beta was “human now, and fine.”

The regression’s over for now, and he’s fine—he’s actually holding himself together pretty damn well—except for the fact that he doesn’t want to talk to anyone from the pack, or his dad or Morrell any more than absolutely needed.  He just quietly goes about his day, with seemingly no interest whatsoever in taking back his usual spot with the pack.

            Isaac would give anything to know what’s going on in Stiles head.  They’ve begged and pleaded for him to just talk to _someone_.  They’ve demanded. Derek’s yelled.  Scott’s given the biggest puppy dog eyes Isaac’s ever seen.  Lydia’s threatened Stiles within an inch of his life.  It was honestly Jackson’s quiet “please, Stiles?” that broke Isaac’s heart the worst.  Nothing gets a reaction though, not really.  Just a resolved, “No” or a “leave me alone” every time they try to start a conversation.

            “I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Isaac says. “I just—I thought I’d bring this by in case—in case you still want it?” he says, laying Stiles’ wedding band on the table between them. “I hope you still want it. We both do—Derek too; he just—you know him. He’s not so great with talking, but—Stiles, he’s out of his mind worried about you—we all are. I just wanted—I wanted to say if it’s me, if I’m the reason you’re not coming home, I’ll go, okay?  I’ll crash someplace else until—you’re ready to talk or we figure it out or whatever. Just don’t—don’t take it out on Derek if this is because of what I—”

            “Stop it, Isaac,” Stiles says flatly.

            “Stiles, I’m begging you.  It’s not his fault that I—”

            “Stop. It.” Stiles repeats forcefully, rising to his feat.

            _Come on. Just fight me. Punch me. Scream at me.  Something. Just do something. Move forward. Whatever it takes to move forward._

Stiles reaches a hand out slowly, sliding the ring toward him and picking it up.  He stares down at the silver band in his palm.

            _Put it back on. Put it back on. Put it back on._

“Go home, Isaac,” Stiles says wearily, tucking the ring in his pocket instead of putting it on his finger; the act hits Isaac like a sucker punch to the gut.

            _At least he took it,_ Isaac soothes himself as he turns and walks out to the car.  _He didn’t leave it on the table. He picked it up.  That’s a good sign, right? That’s progress.  It’ll be okay. He just needs time.  It’s fine. It’s totally fine._

Isaac manages to drive out of earshot before he starts crying so hard he has to pull over until he can see through the tears again.

 

************************************************************

 

            “You went to see him?” Derek asks when Isaac walks back in; he phrases it like a question, but he’s pretty sure he’s right based on the red-rimmed eyes. 

            “I gave him his ring.”

            “Did he take it?”

            “He put it in his pocket,” Isaac says, and his voice breaks on the last word. 

            “Hey, come here,” Derek beckons, arms opening to pull Isaac in close.  “It’ll be okay.”

            “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Isaac replies, using Derek’s own words against him.

            Derek doesn’t argue, just holds Isaac a little tighter.

            “What’re we going to do?”

            “I don’t know,” Derek admits.  “Keep waiting, I guess.”

            “This is worse than waiting for him to come back from regressions,” Isaac says.   “That’s awful but this is _unbearable_ , Derek.  I don’t think he’s coming home.”

            Derek doesn’t have it in him to argue for optimism.  The same fear has been settling in him, too.  Until now, Stiles wanted them close by to help him through whatever he was dealing with, even if he just wanted a hand in his or an arm around his shoulder.  Now he doesn’t want anything from any of them.  Derek doesn’t want to pressure Stiles; he wants to let Stiles cope on his own terms. He’s just not sure how long he can keep himself from forcing it.

 

****************************************************************

 

            “Ms. Morrell wants to talk to you,” Dad tells him, offering the phone.

            “No,” Stiles replies simply.

            “Son, it’s been almost a week.  You need to talk to—”

            “Dad,” Stiles says moodily. “We’ve talked about this.”

            _If you can’t leave me alone, too, I’ll stay someplace else._

“I’m worried about you, kiddo.”

            “Don’t be. I’m dealing,” Stiles replies, standing and retreating out to the backyard.

            The tire swing’s been his best friend the past couple days.  There’s a soothing sensation in the gentle swinging.  Sometimes he can close his eyes and he’s seven years old again, killing time until Mom calls that Dad’s home and supper’s ready.  Sometimes he can make the voices quiet and the anger go away.  Sometimes he can pretend that he’ll get back to a place that happy again.

            Sometimes.

 

********************************************************************

 

            “What if we did like an intervention?” Scott wonders.

            “You mean gang up on him?” Isaac asks.  “No.”

            “Not gang up on him,” Scott answers, reaching for another piece of pizza.  “Just—just go over there, like all of us, and refuse to leave until he picks one of us to fucking talk to about whatever’s bugging him so bad.”

            “You know how goddamn stubborn he is,” Jackson replies.  “He’s going to let us stand there like idiots until he calls our bluff and we leave without him talking.”

            “So then we don’t leave,” Lydia says.  “We can be just as fucking stubborn.”

            “And if we make it worse?” Isaac asks.

            “We have to do something,” Derek says tiredly.

            _I’m tired of sitting here._

*******************************************************************

 

            “Go home,” he tells them when he comes downstairs to see the pack, Dad, and Morrell gathered in the living room. 

            “Stiles, we—”

            “Leave me alone,” he interrupts, making a beeline for the back door.

            _Go away.  How hard is that request to understand?_

Apparently it’s pretty damn hard, because as he tries to retreat into happier memories they’re still mumbling together in the house.  Conversations he doesn’t care about or want to hear so he starts humming “Hey Jude” quietly to compete with the dull roar of voices coming from the house.  It works for a while, until Alec’s voice in his mind starts to drown out  the tune. 

            _Listen to them.  Listen to how worried you’ve made them.  You should be ashamed.  How are you ever going to make up for the burdensome little shit that you are? You’re a dead weight to be dragged along_ _.  Always needing to be saved.  They’re always saving you—_

            “No, they’re not,” he mutters aloud.  “They _didn’t_ save me.”

 _Maybe you’re not worth saving,_ Alec suggests.

            “Yes, I am.”

            _Sure about that?_

“I’m worth saving. I’m good. I’m good enough to keep. Shut up. I’m worth saving.”

 _You regress all the time,_ Alec reminds him. _You still have nightmares. You can’t go in public without drawing every eye in the crowd. You can’t pull your own weight. You can barely handle high school, much less college and a career.  The liabilities you bring to your pack are endless. You really think they’d mind so much to be done with worrying about you? Listen to them.  How much time and energy do they waste on you? Worrying and helping and saving—_

“They didn’t!” he rages. “They didn’t fucking save me—they’ve never saved me! I just _happened_ to snap out of it.  Just like you happened to leave me behind at Deaton’s instead of just killing me.  It was sheer dumb luck both times. Not some grand rescue mission!  _I’m_ the one who killed you and Rachel and saved us when we were taken.  _I’m_ the one who had the chip so that the others found us in time to save Isaac.  Hell, I had the same goddamn chip in me this time and they _still_ couldn’t manage to fucking help me! They’re not saving me! They’re not making me better! It’s just a shit ton of empty promises and helping me fake that I’m something close to who I used to be!”

            _Aw, poor little beta.  Poor, weak, pathetic, traumatized little beta.  Are you going to cry now? Cry for me, beta.  Cry. Scream. It won’t make it any better; nothing will make it better. Come on, beta, cry at how unfair your life is. Let me hear you cry.  Let’s see the good it’ll do you._

“Shut up!” Stiles retorts.  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! You’re not even real! You’re dead! You’re dead, you fucker. _I_ killed you.  _I_ ripped _you_ apart! You got ripped apart by your pathetic little beta so _shut the fuck up_!”

 

********************************************************

 

            “Stiles?” Derek says weakly as they all stand frozen on the back porch while Stiles continues to rant to an Alpha who isn’t here—Alec by the sound of it—and cover his ears with his hands like he can block the voice out.

            _They didn’t fucking save me—they’ve never saved me._

Derek would be lying if he tried to pretend the words didn’t claw at him like a physical wound.  He knows they only cut so deep because they’re undeniably true.  He takes a step toward Stiles as Isaac takes a step back.

            “Stiles?” Derek tries again. 

            “Stiles!” Scott barks, and Stiles turns then, taking in the sight of them on the porch with wide, confused eyes that are quickly clouded with guilt.

            “Fuck,” he laments. “Fuck, no. I—I didn’t—I didn’t mean that. It’s just—Alec in my head is all. I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

            “Yeah, you did, dude,” Scott says with a shrug, the first to recover enough to descend the stairs into the yard.  “’Cause you’re fucking right.”

            “No,” Stiles counters, “no, you tried to find me.  You—you did everything you could. I know you did. I know you tried.”

            “We let you down, man,” Jackson says.

_Understatement._

“He’s right, Stiles,” Lydia agrees.  “It’s—it’s understandable to be angry. It’s okay.”

            “No, it’s not!” Stiles counters angrily.  “It’s fucking not! It’s not your fault! You’ve done everything you can to help—”

            “But it’s not enough,” Derek says quietly. “Some of it is too little too late, and I’m—we’re—sorry for that.”

            The murmured agreement from everyone seems to enrage Stiles even more.  He lets out a roar as he turns, swinging at the tree to vent his frustration.

            “Stiles, don’t!” Lydia pleads as the bones in his fist crack, but he still swings again.  “Stiles!”

            “Stiles, stop!” Derek commands, Alpha tone coming out though he doesn’t entirely mean for it to.

            “Fuck you!” Stiles retorts, turning back to face them all.  “Fuck you and your damn Alpha status and your power over me that you think makes you some great guru over me!”

            He launches himself at Derek, and Derek can’t even bring himself to block the blows he knows he more than deserves. Stiles is well trained when he lets what the Alphas taught him lead, especially when Derek doesn’t fight back.  Stiles has Derek to the ground, hands tightening at Derek’s throat in barely a minute.

            “You promised,” Stiles spits accusingly through tears of pain and rage.  “You swore it would be okay, that no one would ever take me again. You promised I was _safe_ now. Over and over and over and it’s never true! It’s _never_ true! There’s always something else waiting! You can’t protect me! Isaac can’t either! Not the pack, not my Dad, nobody! I’m not ever going to be okay or safe! You’re a fucking liar! You all are! I hate you so much!”

            Derek couldn’t find words to respond even if he had enough air to get them out.  The others have been holding back, watching worriedly but taking their cue from Derek and letting it happen.  Now Scott steps forward.

            “Stiles, come on, let go.”

            “You should have left me the way I was instead of bringing me back to live this hell,” Stiles spits, fury still focused on Derek.

            “Stiles, _please_ ,” Isaac begs, hushed whisper carrying all the way from the porch.

He’s frozen against the back door, head in his hands like he can’t bear to watch and wants more than anything to run and never look back.  Derek couldn’t blame him if he did.  Stiles releases Derek then, getting to his feet as Derek sucks in a painful breath.  Stiles takes in the sight of Isaac, then his eyes trail down to Derek and lastly over to the aggrieved faces of everyone else around him.

“Goddammit,” Stiles rages, turning away from all them.  “I don’t even—I don’t fucking know what to do, okay? I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t—I don’t fucking know. I’m just fucking tired of all of it.”

“Stiles,” his father says gently, reaching out a hand to grab his son’s shoulder.

“Don’t’ fucking touch me!” Stiles snaps, jerking away and rounding on them.  “Don’t—just—leave me the fuck alone, okay? All of you.  You want to help, then leave me the fuck alone. I tried to tell you that.”

 

*******************************************************************

 

_You promised I was safe now. Over and over and over and it’s never true! It’s never true! There’s always something else waiting! You can’t protect me! Isaac can’t either! Not the pack, not my Dad, nobody! I’m not ever going to be okay or safe!_

            The words thunder in Isaac’s mind over and over again as they drive home.  He stares unseeing out the window as Derek tries a few times to start conversation.

            “Come on, Isaac, silent treatment from Stiles is bad enough; talk to me,” Derek beseeches.

            That gets Isaac’s attention, and he turns to see Derek watching him worriedly.  He also can’t help noticing that Derek hasn’t let his busted lip or the faint bruises around his throat heal.

            “I should never have left him,” Isaac says miserably. 

            “You did what you thought was right.”

            “I left him with her.”

            “I’m the reason the Alphas ever took him,” Derek replies.   “We’ve both fucked up where it comes to Stiles.”

            “You should let those heal, Derek.”

            “I’m fine.”

            “I can’t look at them.”           

            “Isaac—”

            “You don’t deserve them.  It’s not your fault.”

            “Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any less like shit,” he replies, looking over at Isaac to add, “It’s not your fault either.”

            “That’s the problem,” Isaac points out bitterly.

            “What?”

            “It’s no one’s fault,” Isaac answers.  “It’s not your fault the Alphas picked Stiles to use to get to you.  It’s not Stiles’ fault he can’t stop the regressions.  It’s not my fault the Alpha moved Stiles so quickly.  It’s nobody’s fault.  There’s no one left to blame for half the shit that happened; maybe they’re all dead, but that doesn’t really fix anything.   It’s just a little closure, but the damage doesn’t go away.”

            “I don’t know what to do for him,” Derek says. “I just—I don’t even know.”

            “I know what I’m going to do,” Isaac says. 

            “What?”

            “I can’t protect him from everything, but I can protect him from me.  When we get back home we’re dealing with this claustrophobia bullshit.  It’s not happening again, not to Stiles, not to anyone.”

            Isaac hopes he sounds more confident about that than he feels, but judging by the pitying look Derek gives him, he doesn’t. 

 

******************************************************************

 

            “Thought you might want some dinner,” Dad says from the other side of the door.

            “Go away,” Stiles replies, though the smell of the grilled cheese is making his mouth water despite his lack of appetite. 

            Stiles retreated to his room—the guest room since even his own damn room holds too many bad memories to really be his anymore—not long after the epic clusterfuck this afternoon.  He’s leaned against the wall under the window fighting the urge to jump out it and run without looking back.  Dad opens the door just a crack, ignoring Stiles’ request.   Stiles will never stop admiring Dad for the past few days; he’s an idiot for risking being the sole human caring for a volatile werewolf, but he hasn’t so much as blinked at the danger of it.  He’s been a rock, and Stiles couldn’t love him more for it.

            “Dad, I’m not hungry.”

            “Then you care stare at it,” his dad quips back, “but it’d be a waste of one helluva sandwich, and you know it.  I am still the king of grilled cheese in this house, young man.”

            Stiles smiles even though he doesn’t want to.  

            “Come on, kiddo, please?” Dad requests. “Two bites.”

            “And then I get ice cream?” Stiles wonders, remembering the deal from when he was little and stubborn and mom wasn’t here to really put her foot down.

            “Whatever kind you want,” Dad replies with a grin.

            Stiles looks away from his father and back down to the ring he’s been turning over in his fingers for hours now, any chance of joviality fading fast as Stiles watches the silver glint a little in the light from the window.

            “I don’t know what to do, Dad,” he admits finally, voice breaking mid-confession. 

            As Stiles dissolves into tears, his Dad casts the plate aside to come and sit beside him.  Dad pulls Stiles into his lap like he’s a toddler rather than a fully grown man, and Stiles relaxes exhaustedly into the embrace, burying his face into Dad’s shoulder as the sobs wrack his body with no sign of stopping anytime soon. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, you've got questions. Next chapter you'll get more answers than you did here, just bear with me (as always :P) 
> 
> As always, sorry I'm not sorry? *offers tissues and chocolate and reminds you to read Delivered when things get dark*


	17. Well I Looked My Demons In The Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3/3 of the Kidnapped Arc :)

            Isaac remembers every single trip downstairs.

            Every.

            Single.

            Trip.

            He’s thought a million times about asking Derek to block these memories, but it always seems so trivial next to the hell Stiles copes with.  Some sick part of him wants to keep them because the memories make him okay with the fact that Dad’s dead now; they remind him that maybe it’s not such a terrible thing.  The less he remembers of the abuse, the more he’s going to miss Dad, and missing Mom was bad enough.

            The freezer didn’t start until after Cam died.  Isaac had followed his brother’s advice to play a sport so he’d have a good excuse to build up a little muscle.

            _Get where you can_ _hold your own with him,_ Cam said, and Isaac can still picture him packing, still hear the uncharacteristically somber tone in his voice. _Make sure you can keep him in check, Isaac. I’m not going to be here to do it for you anymore.  You gotta buck up, okay?_

Isaac returned a punch for the first time three days after Cam left for basic training:

            _“So,” Dad greets when Isaac walks in the door, “Interesting parent night at school.”_

_“Yeah?” Isaac replies._

_He wouldn’t have gone with Dad anyway, but there were three graves to dig tonight and it took fucking forever.  He doesn’t have time or energy to deal with Dad’s drunk ass tonight, but he doesn’t have any more choice in the matter than he ever does. He still tries to move around Dad’s slightly swaying form to get down the hall, but Dad throws out an arm to stop him._

_“Care to tell me what the fuck’s going on in your algebra class?”_

_“I don’t know what you—”_

_“Dammit, Isaac!” Dad explodes with a stinging slap.  “ Don’t you play fucking dumb with me! You do a good enough job of that a school apparently.”_

_“Dad, I didn’t know.  I swear.  She hasn’t given us grades yet. I—”_

_“You didn’t have the slightest inkling that you made a fifty seven on your first test?”_

_“I studied for it, Dad. I thought—”_

_“Like hell you studied.  Even you aren’t that big an idiot, Isaac.  I’ll bet you were out with your brother drinking or—”_

_“Like you’ve got room to talk,” Isaac quips back._

_He knows better.  He’s an idiot to provoke Dad right now, but the words came out so fast.  When Dad starts to rise slowly from his chair, Isaac truly realizes for the first time just how alone he is.  There’s no Cam to help him because he couldn’t keep his fucking smartass retorts in check.  There’s no Cam to talk Dad down or draw the anger himself.  Isaac’s on his own._

_“That’s none of your damn business,” Dad says, voice full of a quiet fury that’s worse than any yelling.  “And maybe if I didn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of a kid who can’t even seem to handle simple math I wouldn’t drink so much.  You’re a pathetic excuse for a son, you know that? At least your brother had potential.  He broke three records on that swim team. Maybe he wasn’t book smart but he’s still managing to make something of himself.   What’re you good for Isaac? Second string on the lacrosse team, so there’s no way your pansy ass could hack it in the military like your brother.  You’re dumb as a fucking brick, so no hope of college. Good thing your mother’s dead or she’d kill herself again in embarrassment_ _.”_

_“Don’t talk about her.”_

_“Hell, maybe she saw it coming,” Dad says.  “One son only worth being shot at and the other entirely useless.”_

_“Shut up!” Isaac orders, shoving at his father._

_And that sets Dad off in earnest.  He answers the shove with a quick jab to Isaac’s stomach followed by another backhand.  Isaac blocks the third blow with one hand, and swings with the other.  His fist connects hard with the side of Dad’s head, and his father staggers sideways, falling hard to the floor.   Isaac feels the thrill of victory for just a moment before he realizes Dad’s not getting up._

_“Dad?”_

_Dad tries to get up, but his arms don’t support him.  Isaac guesses the hit was too hard combined with the alcohol._

_“Help me up,” Dad says, and Isaac moves to obey, noting that the anger seem to be gone for now._

_Maybe Cam was right. Maybe I just have to keep him in check. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all, even with just me and him here._

_He hauls Dad up to his feet and watches as he staggers back toward the kitchen._

_“Go get yourself some dinner out of the freezer,” Dad tells him.  “I damn sure didn’t cook for you.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“Actually, get that lasagna shit.  I want some, too.”_

_“Sure.”_

_He ambles down the stairs and digs through the freezer.  Dad’s footfalls sound on the steps a few minutes later._

_“Dad, I don’t see any—”_

_He stops short at the sight of his father approaching with Isaac’s lacrosse stick in hand._

_“Dad, what’re you doing?”_

_It’s clear now the fall upstairs was a ruse.  If anything, Isaac’s hit sobered Dad up a little.  He’s pretty damn steady on his feet as he stands staring at his son.  There’s a look in his eye that chills the blood in Isaac’s veins._

_“Think you’re a big shot?” he wonders. “Think you can take me?”_

_“No, sir,” Isaac replies._

_Dad might be drunk, but honestly that just makes him worse.  Maybe Isaac could fight him back if he needed to, but he’s avoiding this if he can. Pride be damned for the moment. Dad chuckles, and Isaac seethes at the sound._

_“I’m not sure how I feel about you playing lacrosse,” his dad says._

_“What?”_

_“Seems like a pretty rough sport,” Dad expounds, swinging the stick hard at Isaac._

_Isaac barely ducks in time.._

_“You could get pretty bruised up, I bet,” Dad goes on._

_He swings the stick again, and Isaac jumps back farther to dodge it, practically sitting on the edge of the freezer.  In the next instant, Dad shoves him hard and he topples in. The cold, wet sensation all over his body has him trying to clamber out immediately, but Dad shoves him back down. His intentions are clear and Isaac’s damn sure fighting back now, but Dad’s got the upper hand.  When the lid crashes down on his hands the impact sends jolts of pain down both arms._

_“Dad, no!”_

_“Who’s the big man now, huh?”_

_“Dad, let me out! I can’t breathe!” he begs, pounding at the inside of what’s starting to feel like his coffin.   “Dad, come on! Please!”_

_He still hasn’t stopped punching and kicking and clawing when Dad lets him out what seems like a lifetime later.  His face is wet with freezing tears; his voice is nearly gone; and his fingers are sore and bleeding.  Dad’s smiling in a way that clearly conveys he’s found a new favorite threat.   Soon enough Isaac’s going to be longing for the days when Dad just locked him in his room._

 

*****************************************************************

They’re only four memories in, and Derek’s already wondering if there’s some way to resurrect Isaac’s father so he can kill him again.  He may not keep any version of the memories he gets from Isaac, but the fury they incite lingers a minute or so after they’re done.  He gets the feeling it’ll only get worse.

            “It’s healed,” Isaac says.  “Go again.  We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

           

************************************

 

“I still love them—love all of you,” Stiles murmurs quietly when he’s finally cried himself out.  “I don’t want to blame any of you; it’s not your fucking fault. I just—it’s all just words.  Saying ‘it’s okay’ and ‘it’ll get better’ and everything… It just—the words don’t even have a fucking meaning anymore because every time it gets better it gets worse again.  Every time I’m okay it’s only going to last until the next shitstorm.  It’s just—it’s fucking exhausting, but I can’t give up on myself because none of you give up on me and I love you for it and I hate you for it.  But Derek and Isaac—they’re the worst, Dad.  They want so bad to fix it, and they can’t.  Derek was right; it’s not enough, but that’s not their fault.  And they just won’t stop pretending maybe they can make it be enough one day, and it—it pisses me off and I know that sounds weird but—”

            “It sounds kind of familiar actually,” Dad says with a tired sigh.

            “What?”

            “You say you don’t know what to do?” Dad wonders.

            “I don’t even know how I’d start talking to them about it.  I don’t know how to tell any of them what’s wrong.  I have no fucking clue what to do.”

            “Well, I wish I could tell you, but I can’t,” Dad says sadly. 

            _Thanks a fucking lot for that useless sentence._

“But,” Dad goes on,  “I can tell you what your mother did.”

            “Huh?” Stiles replies, pulling away from his father enough to look him in the face. 

            He should move out of Dad’s lap.  He’s too old for this.  He can’t quite bring himself to give up the illusion of safety yet, though.  Besides, Dad’s still holding onto him like he’s looking for an anchor to get through whatever story about Mom is about to surface.

            “When you mother was in the hospital those—” Dad swallows hard.  “those last few months, we—ah—we had a few spats and she—and she was feeling a lot like you’re feeling I think,” Dad admits, and Stiles leans his head on Dad’s shoulder again because Dad’s tearing up and he can’t watch him cry and keep his shit together too.  “I kept telling her it was all okay and she’d be back home in no time. I didn’t know what else to say to her.  How was I supposed to accept anything else? But—but it was empty promises,” Dad confesses, “like the ones we’ve all given you.  And I’m not—I’m not saying you’re like your mom because I don’t think you’ll get better.  I really do think you will keep getting better.  I just think it’s gonna need a lot of time and patience and there’re gonna be bad days and a lot of frustration on the road to getting better, but you’re so damn strong, kiddo.  You’re going to fight every bit as hard as your mom did, and you’re going to _win_ yours.  But I’m—I’m getting off the point. I just—your mom would get so mad at me some days for pretending it was all okay.  When she wanted me to shut the hell up about it, when she’d had enough, she’d say so, and we’d just sit and watch some horrible daytime television and I’d keep my damn mouth shut.  But some days, some days she’d let me pretend it was going to be all right because—because I think she knew—that I—that I was at the end of my rope.”

            “Dad, it’s okay. You don’t need to—”

            “Because watching the person you love go through pain of any kind and knowing you can’t make it go away, even though you’d take their place in a _heartbeat_ , it’s the worst feeling you can possibly imagine, Stiles.  And I’m not trying to say that what you’ve been through wasn’t hell because God only knows but—but they’re—they’re in their own kind of hell.  And you telling them that you’re fine when you’re not, or putting on a brave face just for their sakes, it’s empty words that frustrate them just as much as they can frustrate you.  And that goes for all of us, not just Isaac and Derek.

            “I can’t tell you what to do.  I can’t even begin to imagine all the struggles you face that I can’t understand.  I _can_ tell you that whatever other empty promises anyone has given you, those two promised to love you for the rest of their lives and they _meant_ that.  And I hope that you know that I love you, and that your pack loves you and when we make those promises and assurances _that_ is what we’re really saying to you: that we love you, and we have hope that you’ll keep fighting.”

            Stiles didn’t think he had any tears left, but they’re streaming down his face all the same.  He knows Dad’s crying too.  They’re a mess in so many ways on so many levels, but oddly enough, sitting here with Dad, both men crying as they try to fathom how the hell they manage to keep going every day, it’s the most hopeful Stiles has felt about anything in a long, long time.

 

**************************************************************

 

            “Stiles?” Derek says eagerly as he answers the phone.

            “Yeah, it’s me.”

            “Is everything okay?” he asks as the excitement of seeing Stiles’ name on the caller ID turns to dread.

            “Stupid question,” Stiles snarks back, but it makes Derek smile, “but relatively I’m fine.”

            “Good. That’s good, so—uh—what’s—what’s up?” Derek wonders, not knowing what else to say that won’t start an embarrassing geyser of emotions Stiles probably doesn’t want to hear right now.

            _I love you. Please come home. I’m really sorry. Did you put your ring back on yet? I know we let you down but so help me if I have to handcuff myself to you I will keep you as safe as I possibly fucking can._

“I just—I wanted to apologize for—for yesterday. I lost my shit and I—”

            “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

            “Yeah, I do. I’m sorry I vented on you, but—but thank you for letting me? I just—I still don’t feel like I have my head on straight but it’s—I’m better.”

            “I’m _really_ glad to hear that, Stiles.”

            “Is Isaac there?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Hand him the phone?”

            “Sure.”

            “I love you, Derek,” Stiles says, “You know that, right?”

            “Yeah, of course.” _Even though I’ve been more than a little worried._ “Love you too.”

            He holds the phone out toward Isaac who takes it as though it’s a poisonous snake. 

            “Stiles, I’m so fucking sorry. I—”

            “Stop it,” Stiles commands from the other end of the line.  “Please stop doing that,” he adds more gently. “You’re not the reason I’m not coming home yet, okay? I want to be sure you get that. I just can’t yet.”

            “But eventually, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            _Thank God, you little shit_ _.  We were starting to wonder._

            “Okay,” Isaac says.  “That’s—that’s the part that counts, and if—if you need us to come to your Dad’s you know all you have to do is ask and—”

            “I know. Thanks.”

            “Of course, Stiles.”

            “I’m—uh—I’m gonna go, but I’ll—uh—I’ll call tomorrow, okay?”

            “Yeah, anytime.”

            “Bye, Isaac.”

            “Bye.”

            The line goes dead and Isaac’s face crumples in despair. 

            _Stiles didn’t say he loved him._

            “He forgot,” Derek says quickly. “That’s all, Isaac. He forgot to say it.  You heard him; you’re not the reason he’s not coming home.  He just forgot to—”

            Derek’s phone buzzes with another incoming call. Stiles name pops up and Isaac answers.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, uh, this is dumb but—I kinda spaced, and if I didn’t say love you, I meant to or I’m saying it again or whatever but—”

            “You, too,” Isaac replies, almost laughing in relief.

            “Talk to you tomorrow.”

            “Yeah.”

 

******************************************************************

 

            “You okay?” Derek asks as he reaches to leech pain from the wound at Isaac’s neck. 

            He’s been taking memories all day, Isaac knows that, but he can’t remember _what_ Derek’s been taking memories of.

            “That was the last one?” he guesses.  “Of—whatever it was?”

            “That’s what you said when you told me about it,” Derek answers.

            “Oh.”

            “And—uh—once you’re healed up a little we’ll I guess test and see if it works? You—ah—it was memories that made you hate tight spaces? Or being trapped in tight spaces? And you kinda freaked out when you did and—”

            “I remember telling you I wanted to fix the claustrophobia,” Isaac tells him.  “I just don’t remember why I’d be that way.”

            “Oh, well, good then.”

            “I wanna test it now.  It’s not like my neck hurts that bad.”

            “You sure? We can—”

            “I’m sure.”

 

**************************************************

 

            Isaac lasts about a minute in the basement before he’s screaming and banging at the door.  Apparently the phobia remains though the memories are gone.

            _If this doesn’t work,_ Isaac told him when he recounted the last memory of the freezer, _leave me in there until I stop screaming because we’ll just have to go the desensitization route.  I know you don’t want to, but it’s fine.  I’ll—I’ll heal if I hurt myself.  Just don’t—don’t let me out._

Derek had agreed, but he’d been lying.  There’s no way he’s leaving Isaac in there to deal with this alone.  If the phobia drives Isaac to shift, then maybe he needs some kind of anchor to overcome it.  Maybe Derek will be enough, but even if he’s not it’s still better than standing hear ignoring Isaac’s frantic supplications.

            _I’m such an idiot,_ he can’t help thinking as he opens the door just long enough to shove Isaac back and enter himself.  There’s a panic button on the inside of the frame.  It seals the room from inside and can only be opened from a code in here or out there.  It was intended to serve as the humans’ safe room; it’ll be more than sufficient to keep in Isaac.

            Isaac tears into Derek to get past him back toward the door.  His panicked, feral state is too much to allow the logic that all he has to do is punch in a code.  He claws at the door just a moment or two before rounding on Derek again, the fear and anger in Isaac’s wolf driving him to maim and kill _something_ in an effort to vent the overload of emotion. 

            “Isaac, it’s me,” Derek says, forcing his voice to stay calm as he dodges the first few swipes.  “It’s me; it’s Derek. Anchor yourself.  Get control over instincts.  _You_ control the fear, Isaac; come on.”

 

********************************************************

 

            _Out. Out. Get out. Kill anything that won’t let you out. Out. Out. Out. Claw out. Punch out. Hit out. Out. Out. Claw. Bite. Rip. Shred. Out. Get out. Get out. Fight. Fight. Claw. Slash. Strike. Out. Have to get out. Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Get out. Out. Have to get out. Get out._

“Isaac, _please._ ”

            _Isaac.  Isaac. I’m Isaac. That’s my name._

_Have to get out. Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Get out. Out. Claw. Bite. Rip. Shred. Out. Get out._

“Isaac, control it.  You can control it. I know you can.  Don’t listen to the instincts.”

            _Control doesn’t matter just need to get out.  Claw. Bite. Rip. Shred. Out. Get out._

“Think of an anchor.”

_Anchor. Derek and Stiles and pack. Don’t need an anchor. Need to get out. Have to get out. Hit. Punch. Growl. Bite. Make it let you out._

“Isaac, come on.”

            _It’s getting weaker.  Kick. Slash. Push. Bite. Out. Have to get out. Don’t stop. Have to get out. Can’t breathe._

“Isaac, you can do this. Control it.  Stop fighting.”

            “Can’t.”

            “Yes, you can!”

            “Can’t. Can’t stop. Have to get out. Can’t breathe. Can’t stay. Out! Let me out!”

            “It’s okay; you’re okay. You can  breathe. You just have to control—”

            “No! Let me out! I want out! Get me out!!”

            “Breathe, Isaac. You’re okay!”

            “I can’t breathe! I can’t! I—I—”

            He’s choking, choking as the darkness closes in on him. Walls pressing in as a vice closes around his ribs.  He fights for every gasp of air, can’t even stay upright.

            “Help—help—can’t—breathe.”

            “You can. I swear you can, Isaac. You’re okay. I’m here. It’s me. You’re okay.”

            “Please—help.”

            In the next instant the agony of suffocating is blasted away by surprise as another mouth claims his.  He mirrors the move automatically until the person pulls away.

            _No, not the person. I know that kiss. Derek. It’s Derek._

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Isaac demands. 

            Derek smiles at him, a fucking pleased, cocky smile he shouldn’t have because even in the dim light Isaac can see there’s blood on his face and all over him from various strikes Isaac unleashed and Derek didn’t manage to dodge.

            “No, don’t smile at me!” Isaac orders angrily.  “What the hell were you thinking? I told you to leave me in here. I could’ve hurt you! I could’ve—Jesus, Derek what the _fuck_?”

            “Hey, I’m okay,” Derek swears, face falling to a somber expression Isaac thinks is much more appropriate to the moment.  “Calm down. You didn’t hurt me.  Couple scratches, that’s all.”

            “Derek—”

            “I had to.”

            “No, you didn’t; you—”

            “I couldn’t just listen to that, Isaac.  I’m an Alpha. I knew I wouldn’t regress. You weren’t going to hurt me too badly.”

            “You’re a fucking idiot.”

            “Maybe so,” Derek answers with a shrug.  “But I’d do it again.”

            “No, you—”

            “You realize you’re fine right now,” he interrupts.  “You’re still trapped down here with me, but you’re fine.”

            At the words, Isaac’s eyes dart toward the door.  He tenses.

            _Out. I need to get out. Have to get out. I—_

“Isaac, look at me,” Derek commands, pulling him from his decent into panic. “You’re okay.”

            “Maybe.”

            “Give yourself some credit.  This is pretty fucking awesome progress.”

            _Yeah, but is it enough? And I still hurt you. What if—_

“Come on,” Derek says, leading the way up the stairs.  “I think we’ve both had as much as we can take of this today.”

            “Yeah,” Isaac agrees, following readily.

_And I’m not asking you to go round two if you’re a stupid fuck again and lock yourself in here with me._

 

*******************************************************

The doorbell chimes through the house as Isaac begins cleaning up from dinner.   There’s not much to do; it was just frozen pizza. 

            “I’ll get it,” Derek offers.

            “Who the hell actually uses the doorbell?” Isaac wonders.

            “Stiles?” Derek guesses. “Maybe he—”

            “Don’t,” Isaac interrupts because he can’t get his hopes up; Stiles said “not yet” and that coule be days or weeks or months or fuck knows what.  He can’t have his hopes up after barely 36 hours.   But he wanders toward the door anyway, catching sight of the Sheriff’s truck is out in the drive just a second after Derek’s and sprinting with him to the door.  

            _Stiles?_   _Is it really? Could it be? Please let it be. Please._

Derek beats him to the door yanking it open with such force Isaac’s surprised it doesn’t come off its hinges.  Stiles’ head is down, and for one horrible moment Isaac thinks he’s regressed and that’s why the sheriff brought him home, but then he’s looking up at them, guilt and apology written all over his face.  He holds up his left hand, displaying the ring that’s back where it belongs now.

            “No matter what awesomeness or hellish shit may come?” he asks, repeating the vow hopefully. “Right? I know I’ve been off my fucking rocker, but—”

            His words are choked off in the next moment as Isaac and Derek sandwich him into an embrace so tight he can probably barely breathe.

            “No matter what the fuck happens,” Isaac tells him.  “You belong here, with us.  Don’t you fucking dare ever doubt that.”

            “I’m sorry I—”

            “Don’t,” Derek replies.  “The apologizing needs to be done.  I’m sorry I didn’t stop her from taking you. Isaac’s sorry he hurt you and had to leave you. You’re sorry you vented like you did. We all know. We all forgive. We’re getting past it.   Can we please, _please_ stop apologizing?”

            “Yeah, yeah of course,” Stiles agrees.  “Forward is good, but I still need to talk—”

            “We’ll _talk_ about anything you fucking want to,” Derek swears.  “I just can’t hear you and Isaac apologize anymore.   We’re all doing the best we fucking can.  It’s not always enough, but it’s something.  We’re okay. We’ll be okay.”

            It’s the request of a man exhausted to the brink of a breakdown, and Isaac’s glad Stiles seems to hear it, too.

            “Yeah, we’re okay,” Stiles agrees,  “except you are kind of bleeding dude.  What the hell?”

            “I’m not bleeding anymore. They’re all healed. I’m fine.”

            “Yeah, but—”

            “I’m trying to get over the whole freaking out in closed spaces thing,” Isaac admits, “And this dumbass came in the basement with me.”

            “And you lasted a solid five minutes down there being totally normal,” Derek reminds, “so it was worth it.”

            “Really? Good for you, Isaac.”

            “Yeah, well, clearly it was something that needed to be dealt with.”

            _It still needs to be dealt with._

“It was crazy good progress.”

            “Sounds like a good silver lining from this whole clusterfuck,” Stiles says with a smile.

“Dude, that’s fucked up.”

            “That’s life,” Stiles answers, and the silence that follows confirms Derek doesn’t have any more of an idea how to respond than Isaac. 

            “So,” Stiles says, breaking the silence himself.  “I know I owe you both explanations of a lot of shit, but can it wait? Just for a while. Tomorrow I’ll go through it all just—can we just be us for a minute tonight?”

            “Chinese food and Mystery Science 3000?” Isaac suggests, unable to stop a smile at the idea of something so normal and easy.

            “That sounds fucking perfect.”

 

************************************************************

 

            Stiles is making breakfast, and he’s not sure if this is just something to keep him occupied or a subconscious apology, but he’s not looking into it too much.  Derek’s making coffee, and Isaac’s lazily peeling an orange.  The silence between them is tense, not comfortable, and Stiles hopes it doesn’t take them too long to find their natural sync again. 

            “Stiles,” Derek says as he pours the coffee and Stiles starts to dish out the eggs and sausage, “if you don’t want to talk about the rest yet that’s okay, but I’ve got to know about that other beta if we need to—”

            “Her name is Julie,” Stiles replies.  “She’s fine. You don’t have to worry about her.”

            “Oh.”

            “She’s—she’s human again,” Stiles tells them.  “The cure works—killing the Alpha that turned you.  I—uh—I got the Alpha down, but I let her give the death blow, just in case, and it worked so—so she’s human. I took her home.”

            “The cure works?” Derek asks, obviously dumbfounded.

            “Yeah, it—uh—I thought it killed her for a minute.  She was spewing black puke and it was bleeding out her eyes and  nose and—it was fucking scary as hell but, but then once it stopped she was her old self I guess.  Took about a day.  I wasn’t sure if I could really take her home or if I’d have to bring her to Deaton, but she was fine when I left her.  I think—I think she’ll be okay, you know, eventually.  I—the Alpha didn’t want me to anything _too_ bad so—just—I guess the normal kidnapping PTSD mostly? Not like—like full training. I didn’t—I didn’t—she won’t be—as bad as I am.  She should be okay.”

            _Please let her fucking be okay.  A little counseling maybe. Whatever the normal therapy is for kidnapping victims. Then she’ll move past it and be human and normal and happy and just fucking okay even though I helped put her through all that shit._

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Isaac agrees.

            Derek’s quiet, and it’s not hard to see his attention’s somewhere else. Stiles doesn’t like the look on his face though.

            “Derek, what is it?”

            _I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to help that Alpha turn her. I know how you feel about consent. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t me. It was Damon._

            “That cure—it—it was just an old story—it wasn’t—it wasn’t _true._ It—it was just shit people said.  A legend. It—it—”

            _Leave it to Derek to take the moment he could be mad at me and get mad at himself instead._

            “Dude, it was a total shot in the dark,” Stiles admits. “It just happened to work. It’s a fucking miracle it—”

            “If I had let Scott kill Peter,” Derek interrupts. “So much of this could’ve all been so different and—”

            “Hey, stop it. It’s—”

            “If I made sure we let you kill Thomas.  You could be human, Stiles.   You could—”

            “It’s okay.”

            “Fuck,” Derek curses, turning away.

            “I didn’t tell you so that you’d feel fucking guilty.  What happened happened, all this shit brought us where we’re at, and it’s not such a fucking bad place really—I mean it’s not perfect but it’s—we’re—we could be worse. It all could’ve ended worse.”

            “But it could’ve ended better too,” Derek replies. “I didn’t—I should’ve let Scott try or at least had the sense by the time it came to you—”

            “Stop it.  You’re the one who said none of this is anyone’s fault.”

            “But—”

            “Just be fucking grateful I didn’t help turn some innocent girl and leave it alone.”

            “That wasn’t you,” Isaac argues.  “You were regressed; you didn’t—”

            “I tortured her until she gave consent to be turned.  I started training her like they trained me.  I took off my wedding ring and—”

            “Stop it!” Isaac orders. “We’ve just—we’ve all got to fucking _stop._ We—we fuck everything up and we think it’s all on us but—but some of it’s not—some of it’s shit and we’ve got let go and I don’t know how the fuck to let go but just—we’ve got—we’ve got to stop doing this.  We’ve got to stop getting to the end of shit situations and letting them haunt us for fucking ever!”

            “I’m just saying—”

            “You’re doing the same thing Derek did thirty seconds ago, the same thing I was doing when I kept apologizing for the shit that went down in the basement and I hurt you. It’s just—we—I don’t fucking know but we’re fucked up and we’ve got to stop.  That shit you said about empty promises and saying everything’s okay and all that you had a fucking point. I know it’s not quite how you meant it, but you were right. It’s fucking lying, and we just—we try to act like things are normal and okay and then when bad shit happens it’s because we fucked up, but it’s—it’s really more that things _are_ fucked up. They’re _not_ okay. And maybe we’ve just got to fucking deal with that.  Stop apologizing so much for shit we can’t control and just promise to get better, not try to fix what’s already happened. Does that—I don’t even fucking know if that makes sense. I just—”

            “No, it makes sense,” Stiles agrees, and it’s not the first time he’s thought Isaac might make a good counselor if he worked at it.  “Mostly. It’s just—easier to say than to do.”

            “Add it to the list of shit we need to work on,” Derek says with a wry smile.

            The conversation stalls, the quiet falls again, and they go back to eating their breakfast.  Stiles feels an odd sense of triumph in the fact that the conversation ended with just that simple statement of fact; not promises that it’ll be okay, not apologies, just an assurance that they’ll work on it, words that are undeniably true.  He wishes he could explain why it’s the truth in it that matters, wishes he knew had words to explain that he _hopes_ it all gets better but something in him is just so fucking tired of _hoping_ and wants to just take the semi-shitty moments now for what they are and keep trudging.  He’s not sure if this disillusionment is pessimism or realism or depression.  He just kind of hopes he can accept it but push forward anyway. 

            _And I hope that you know that I love you, and that your pack loves you and when we make those promises and assurances that is what we’re really saying to you: that we love you, and we have hope that you’ll keep fighting_ Dad has said.

            The memory pairs with words Stiles spoke months ago that he’s maybe only now really coming to understand: _this is a marathon, not a sprint._

            As the words settle in his head, he zones out for a moment, until Derek makes a crazy face to draw his attention.  He can’t help smiling as Derek returns to his breakfast as though nothing happened.  Derek’s straight face lasts only a moment and he’s grinning, too.  Isaac rolls his eyes at the two of them, and Stiles’ grin widens.

            _Well, even if it’s a marathon, at least the company’s pretty damn good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know there are many things unanswered and unexplored about Stiles time with the Alpha, but I was more interested in the aftermath honestly, and the seeds I could sew here for later angst (claps hands in gleeful anticipation....and not-so-subtly hints we may see more of Julie (way) later) Buuuut if you would like certain things answered, shoot me and ask or email. I'm happy to oblige :)


	18. Twisted Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the bigots in Beacon Hills have some not-so-nice opinions about the Hales' unconventional marriage. WARNING for potential homophobia triggers I guess?
> 
> And the pack gets and unexpected visitor

“I think we’d like to sit somewhere else,” the man says with a glare at Derek and Isaac.

            Derek watches as Isaac glances up and tenses, looking pointedly back down to study his napkin.  He knows the tone well enough. The guy’s talking too loudly, more intent on making a scene than really expressing a grievance with seating arrangements.

            _Just go eat someplace else, would you? It’s been a nice night._

            “You said you two wanted a booth. This is the booth we have available,” Jackie, the hostess says.

            “We’ll wait.”

            “Is there something the matter with—”

            “I just don’t think I’d have much appetite sitting so close to _those_ two.”

            “You got a problem?” Derek asks, turning to face the man, attitude running away with him like always.  He fights the urge to rise to his feet.

            _It’s Lucy’s place; this isn’t the place to start shit._

            “I bet your daddy’s rolling over in his grave,” the man supposes, eyes boring into Isaac instead of Derek.  “You should be ashamed of yourself, parading that perverted nonsense around in front of _decent_ people trying to—”

            “That’s enough,” Derek says, rising to his feet.

            “What’re you? His bodyguard? Pansy-ass little fairy can’t—”

            Derek shoves him back hard and the man tumbles back into an unoccupied table.

            “You shut your damn mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

            “Big words from a guy who—”

“Derek, come on; it’s not worth it,” Isaac argues as the guy’s mouth runs on.  “Too much trouble and attention.  Come on; let’s just go.”

            “No, you boys have a seat,” Lucy counters, as she approaches the scene that’s now attracted the attention of the whole diner.

  She glares at the man as he gets to his feet.

            “Luce, we don’t want to be—”

            “You haven’t even had dessert yet.”

            “Really we—”

            “Sit,” she orders before turning back to the bigot.  “Sir, you can sit in the available booth and behave yourself or you can get the hell out of my diner.”

            “Fine,” he replies with a huff.  “If he wants to shit on the morals his brother died protecting he can—”

            Isaac pushes past Derek and back toward the man before Derek can hardly blink.  He barely manages to hold Isaac back; he knows he was right to stop him when he feels Isaac shaking with what must be fury.

            _Wish I could let you wail on him, but not here, not when he’s bringing up Camden._

            “Cam died fighting so I can be whoever the hell I want to be!” Isaac rages, pulling against Derek’s unyielding hold.  “ _Those_ are the rights he was protecting! Don’t you talk like you know my family, Donny Messer! You don’t know shit about them or me; you’ve got your head too far up your own ass to know anything about anything!  You wanna talk about family? Let’s talk about how your nephew’s—”  


            “Don’t you say a fucking word about my nephew, you queer little shit! He—”

            “That’s enough!” Lucy shouts, stepping between them.  “You get the hell out of my diner, or I’ll call the police right now, you hear me?” she demands, the finger that’s inches from Messer’s nose making him go cross-eyed.  “And I don’t ever want to see your ugly, hateful face in here again.”

            For one split second, Derek thinks he’s going to push her aside, and he can’t help loosening his grip on Isaac just a little and taking a step forward.

            _One finger on her, you motherfucker, and I will end you._

            “Wouldn’t give my money to a place like this anyway,” he replies, spitting on the floor before he storms out, muttering curses. His wife follows, spitting in suit.  There’s silence a moment or two in the diner and then the place erupts into noisy conversation.

            “Sorry about that, boys,” Lucy says with a strained smile.  “Dessert’s on the house.”

            “You don’t have to—”

            “I _want_ to.”

            “We didn’t mean to—”

            “Hey,” she interrupts.  “I don’t want the likes of him in here anyway.  You two are some of the best boys I know.  It’s nobody’s damn business but yours who you want to be with.”

            “Have we told you lately that you’re insanely awesome?” Isaac wonders.

            “Never hurts to hear it again,” she says with a smile. 

 

********************************

 

            “You want to talk about it?” Derek wonders as the ride home in near silence. 

He reaches over as though he’s going to put his hand over Isaac’s where it rests on the console. Isaac pulls his hand back to his lap before Derek can make contact.  He’s still seething with anger and doubt and a guilt he shouldn’t feel.

“No.”

“Talk about it anyway?” Derek pushes. 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t let that asshole, get to you.  He doesn’t know shit about your—”

“Yeah, he does actually,” Isaac replies bitterly.  “He knew Dad and Cam.  His nephew was on the swim team a while, and he was always at meets.  He got Dad a job at the plant when he lost his spot with the school system.  They were friends a while—until Messer got married and his wife didn’t like Dad much.”

            “Isaac—”

            “He’s right,” Isaac mutters, glaring out the window.  “You know my dad would beat me to death before he’d watch me marry either of you, much less both.  Cam—Cam would’ve tried to get it, but he wouldn’t’ve liked it.  That was bullshit about him fighting so I could be whoever I want; he joined up to get the fuck away from Dad.  Everything else was just a perk.  He’d get me wanting to get married to get out but he—he wouldn’t like it much more than Dad.  He’d just—not talk about it.”

            _Same way me and Cam handled everything else.  Pretend it’s not there. Talk about swim team and lacrosse and the Giants’ standings._

“I’d still—I’d still marry you guys. I’m not saying I’d do it different or regret it or anything,” he assures, looking over at Derek for the first time since he started speaking.

            Derek’s face is carefully blank as he listens, and Isaac realizes he shouldn’t have said anything. 

            _What good is this doing? Why am I even talking?_

But the floodgates are open already, so he goes on, “I just—Stiles’ father took it all in stride, and he’s said he wishes more than once his mom could’ve met us.  I hear how you talk about your folks; they’d’ve been in with the pack and happy for it I think.  But with Dad and Cam—all I can ever think is it’s probably easier for everybody that they’re not around to deal.”

            “We’d make it work,” Derek swears “if they were here we would—”

            “But I’m glad we don’t have to,” Isaac says.  “How fucked up is that? That I’m _glad_ they’re dead so that—”

            “You’re not glad they’re dead, and you know that,” Derek counters.  “You’re looking for silver linings, and maybe that is one,” Derek says.  “It doesn’t make you a bad son or brother any more than it makes me a shitty grandson.”

            “What?”         

            “Honestly? My grandparents would have flipped their shit on so many levels,” Derek replies.  “They were big into the old traditions.  They never gave up trying to convince Mom to have Laura marry a son from another old blood pack.  I can’t even imagine what they’d do if I brought home two bitten, barely legal wolves to try and make a non-breeding bond.  The lecture and fights as to how I was disgracing the family and driving the bloodline to extinction would _never_ have ended. You should’ve heard them the time Laura mentioned she wasn’t even sure she wanted to have kids.”

            “Really?”

            “Everybody’s family’s fucked up,” Derek replies.  “Some worse than others. Some hide it better than others.  Nobody’s got room to judge.”

            “Yeah, tell that to the town still trying to figure out how the two ex-murder suspects and the psych case got hitched in a weirdo threesome.”

            “I didn’t think it bothered you,” Derek says, and there’s a sadness in the words that makes Isaac want to hold him.

            “It doesn’t—I mean it’s—most people don’t start shit, not many say things anymore. I just—I wish people would mind their own goddamn business.” 

            This time it’s Isaac who moves to initiate the contact, and Derek lets him bring his hands up to rub circles at the tension in the base of Derek’s neck.  

            “I wouldn’t change a thing, Derek,” Isaac says.  “You know that, right? I’d pick you and Stiles forever no matter what it meant dealing with.”

            “Good, ‘cause you’re stuck with us,” Derek replies with a smile that’s just a little too strained. 

 

******************************************************************

           

                 

            “Who are you?” Isaac wonders, trying to figure out why this werewolf smells vaguely familiar when he’s certain he’s never laid eyes on her before.

            “I’m looking for Alpha Hale.”

            Derek’s out getting the broccoli they forgot at the store to go with dinner, but that’s a little too domesticated a response if she’s some kind of threat.

 “Is she here?” the girl wonders when Isaac doesn’t respond immediately.

            _She? You think it’s Laura? How would you know it should be Laura? Or do you think it’s still Talia?_

“ _He_ isn’t,” Isaac replies.  “I’m Second. What’s your business with this pack?”

            “He?”

            “Yes.”

            “ _Peter_ Hale is your Alpha?” she asks incredulously.

            Isaac fights the urge to growl at the thought.

            “Derek Hale is my Alpha,” he corrects.  “Now, what do you want?”

            “I need to talk to him.”

            “That’s not possible; you’ll just have to tell me.”

            The sound of the Camaro pulling into the drive has her turning to look.  Isaac wishes he had some way to warn Derek there’s an outsider, but he’ll sense it himself soon enough.  Derek steps out of the car, looking as though every muscle in his body is tensed to take on the threat if he needs to.  He studies the girl for a moment before his entire demeanor changes, relaxing to the point that Isaac almost expects him to grip the car for support. His mouth falls open in surprise.

            “Cora?” he wonders finally.

            She nods, seemingly unable to speak herself now that tears have started to trickle down her face.  In the next instant she’s running toward Derek, and Isaac almost moves to stop her before he takes in Derek’s open arms.   She buries her head in his chest, clinging to him for all she’s worth, and he clings back just as tightly.  Isaac can’t help feel like he’s intruding on a private moment, especially now that Derek’s crying too, but Isaac’s not about to go back inside and leave Derek with an outsider, however glad he may be to see her.

            “How—how are you—I thought you were dead,” Derek says finally, and the girl, Cora, pulls back just a bit though she doesn’t let go just yet. “How are you not dead?”

            “I wasn’t home. I—I—was out on the preserve and I—when I ran back to the house they were—they were pulling out the bodies and the _smell_ Derek and—and I just ran—I was scared and—and then I couldn’t feel the pack anymore so I thought everyone was—but then I heard rumors. People saying the Hale Pack took down a pack of alphas.  That Alpha Hale was rebuilding—recruiting—and I didn’t think it was true but I had to come see and—and you’re here; you’re alive and—”

            She dissolves into tears again, no doubt overwhelmed, and Derek shushes her as he pulls her close again.

            “We thought you were dead, too,” he says.  “We left town quick running from hunters and then we thought—the body count that they reported—they counted you in with the others.  We didn’t know to look for you. We—we—I’m so sorry, Cora. I’m so fucking sorry we didn’t—”

            “We,” she repeats.  “Derek, why are you Alpha? Where are they?”

            The grief the question puts on Derek’s face is absolutely heartbreaking.

            “They’re—they’re both—they’re gone,” Derek answers, voice breaking on the last words. 

 

******************************************************

 

            Derek’s mind is reeling with a million questions, but it’ll wait for a while he supposes. 

            “Come on, come in,” he beckons, throwing an arm over Cora’s shoulders and bringing her toward the house.

            “It looks really nice,” she tells him. “Different, but nice.”

            “Thanks,” he says.  “I couldn’t keep it the same after…”

            “I’m glad you didn’t.”

            Isaac’s still waiting on the porch looking incredibly confused but forcing a smile anyway.

            “Cora, meet Isaac,” Derek says. And Isaac holds out a hand in greeting. “My husband,” he adds because that might as well get out in the open. 

            “Husband?” she repeats as her eyebrows rise skeptically.  “You actually convinced some poor guy to marry your moody ass?”

            “Fuck off,” Derek mutters.

            _And technically I convinced two poor guys to marry my moody ass, but I’ll take the five minutes of normalcy before that bombshell gets dropped._

“He’s not so bad,” Isaac says awkwardly.  “It’s—uh—it’s awesome to meet you.”

            “Thanks; you too.”

            “So—um—food?” Derek asks as they head inside. “You hungry?”

            “Dude, I’m starving.”

            “Then you have definitely come to the right house,” Stiles calls from the kitchen.  “Leftover lamb chops or wait ‘til homemade lasagna’s done?”

            “Is he serious?”

            “Stiles never jokes about food,” Derek replies.  “I’d say go for the lamp chops, but that’s just me.”

            “Stiles?” she asks as they walk toward the kitchen.              “The Stilinski kid?”

            “Technically, I’m a Hale now,” Stiles responds as they walk in.  “But yes, the spaz from your pee wee soccer league.”

            It’s only then that Derek remembers Cora’s just a year younger than the rest of the pack. 

            “A Hale now? Oh, you mean you’re pack.”

            “Pack, yes, but also husband number two,” Stiles replies, wiggling his flour-covered fingers.  “And I’m going to throw your big brother to the wolves and let him explain that one.”

            “Thanks a lot.”

            “Any time,” he replies with a smug grin. 

            “So you’re all three—”

            “Married, yeah.”

            “How does that even work?”

            “It’s a long story.”

            “Yeah, I’ll bet.

            “That can wait, tell me what’s up with you.   Where’ve you been?”

            “South America.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Just for a while.  I remembered those stories Gram used to tell—you know about the pack roots going back to the rainforests of Brazil.  Total shit, by the way.  Our real heritage story is so lame I’m not even telling you.  Still, there were some packs who took me in.  Cute little kid and all that. I did okay.”

            “You shouldn’t have had to figure that out on your own. You—”

            “I was fine.”

            “You’re an Omega, aren’t you?” Derek asks.

            “I’ve been fine,” she repeats.  “That whole lone wolves can’t survive thing is bullshit.   It’s better to be a lone Omega than get shit on by some pack who wants cheap labor and easy loyalty.”

            She’s too young to have the bitterness in her tone right now.  It puts a horrible ache in Derek’s chest.

            _You were our sister.  Our little sister.  We should’ve protected you. We should’ve made sure you weren’t in the fire with the others. We should’ve known somehow._

“How long have you been on your own?”

            “Couple years?” she supposes with a shrug.  “You know how that Hale rebellion sets in a bout 15,” she adds with a teasing grin.

            She’s got no way to know that she’s teasing Derek about the rebellious streak that got their whole family killed.  Derek hopes to God she never finds out.  He forces a smile and ignores the pained look Isaac gives him over Cora’s head.

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees.  “I know.”

            “I can—I can stay here though, right?” she asks, voice confident though her eyes are worried.  “As a beta.  I’m a Hale. I belong here.”

            “Of course you belong here,” Derek assures, and the tension in her shoulders releases.   “But if you bite me, you’re out,” he teases.

            “I was ten,” she reminds.  “You were bigger than me.  You should’ve picked on someone your own size.”

            “To the _bone,_ you little psycho.  It took a day and half to heal up.”

            “And you never stole any of my stuff again. Clearly it was effective.”

            She’s grinning proudly at the memory, and Derek can’t help thinking how much she looks like Laura now. 

            “What?” she asks.  “Is there something on my face?”

            “No,” he replies, “just—it’s good to see you. I missed you.”

            “Ah, shit, don’t tell me you’ve gotten all sappy on me,” she says, raising an arm to swipe at his shoulder.

            The plate Stiles was about to hand her clatters to the floor as he grabs her wrist too hard to stop her making contact.  She jerks away from him, and he growls.

            “No, Stiles! Stop it. Back off!” Derek orders, and Stiles retreats instantly.

            “Sorry, Alpha—Derek. Sorry. I didn’t—I thought I was okay. I’m sorry.”

            “What the fuck is your problem?”

            “Don’t, Cora, don’t,” Stiles pleads, gripping tight to the counter as he closes his eyes.

            “Come on,” Isaac says.  “Let’s—let’s go for a run, yeah?”

            “She’s not pack, Isaac,” Stiles answers quietly.  “She’s not pack.  We can’t leave him with her. She’s not pack.”

            “It’s okay, Stiles; she’s family,” Derek says.  “Go with Isaac, okay? I need to talk to Cora.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be.  I’ll explain. It’s fine, just go with Isaac.”

            “Come on,” Isaac bids, taking Stiles hand. 

            Stiles follows like an unwilling toddler, looking sadly back over his shoulder before they disappear out the door.

            “What the hell was that?” Cora asks, clearly bewildered.

            “Fix a new plate and we’ll have a seat,” Derek replies.  “It’s a long story.”

 

******************************************************

 

            “Seriously?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow as Derek jots down the list.  “Words I’m not allowed to say?”

            “Words that tend to trigger a flashback,” Derek corrects.  “It’s just—we try to make it as easy on him as we can.”

            “By coddling him? Come on, Derek; he’s got to be able to function like a normal person or—wait, _does_ he even function like a normal person? Can he even go out in public?”

            “He goes out.  He does fine.”

            “But people notice him; he draws attention.”

            “There’s a perfectly fine cover story in place for—”

            “You let him draw attention to a pack that’s still in its first stages of rebuilding? _And_ you draw attention with your weirdo marriage thing? _And_ you didn’t try to downplay the fact that your pack survived alphas? _Twice?_ Jesus Christ, you’re lucky every Alpha on the West Coast hasn’t come to—”

            “It’s none of your business how I run my pack.”

            “It is if I’m going to join in.”

            “Well, Stiles and Isaac are part of this deal.  You accept that, or you don’t join the pack.”

            “You pick them over family?”

            “They _are_ my family; I love them, Cora; I fucking married them.  I’m not giving them up, not ever.”

            “So if I don’t love them, too, I’m kicked out? Good to know where your loyalty’s at.”

            “That’s not what I said. I just—dammit, Cora. You don’t—you have to _respect_ them, as your packmates, if you’re going to stay.”  He pauses a moment before adding, “and I hope you stay just—for the record or whatever.”

            He feels like an idiot saying it, but when he glances up, she looks surprised.

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, of course.”

            “Oh.”

            “Why wouldn’t I want you to stay?”

            “I dunno—just—you’ve got it all together and everything.  It sounds like you’ve got enough shit to deal with without your pain in the ass little sister—”

            “I missed my pain in the ass little sister,” Derek replies.  “I want you in this pack; you just—you’ve got to have an open mind.”

            “Former hunter, threesome marriage, coddled conditioned beta, yeah, your pack’s a fucking circus, dude.”

            Derek growls at the words.  “ _Cora_.”

            “Fine, fine, I’m being bitchy.  I just—it’s not what I thought I was coming to when I came here to find the new Hale Pack.”

            “If you don’t want to stay—”

            “What’m I going to do? Go be Omega again? No fucking way. I’m staying, I just—it’s gonna take some getting used to, okay?”

            “Okay.”

 

*************************************************

 

Once Stiles is out from his medicine, Isaac trods out to the kitchen, debating if it’s worth trying to get some sleep or if he might as well stay up and just nap after class.  Cora’s already in the kitchen putting the milk back in the fridge. 

“Guess he woke you?”

“Helluva nightmare,” she answers with a nod. “He takes a sedative?”

“Only way he can sleep sometimes,” Isaac replies with a shrug. 

_You have no fucking idea what he’s been through.  Get that fucking disapproving look off your face._

Isaac understands that Cora’s been through a lot.  It can’t have been easy to be out on your own at eleven years old.  It still doesn’t mean she gets to judge Stiles or his struggle just because she clearly thinks she’s managed her hardships better.  He’s trying his damnedest to bite his tongue because she’s Derek’s sister, but the truth is she’s been an asshole about a lot of things the past two days. Isaac isn’t only pissed because of the way she talks about Stiles but also for the position she’s putting her brother in.   Derek’s made it clear more than once that she’s expected to be respectful, but he shouldn’t have his reunion with his sister marred by the fact he’s always playing referee. 

 

************************************************

           

            Cora dozes off during the seventh inning.  They think nothing of it until she wakes screaming unintelligibly a few moments later.  She’s on her feet in the next moment, headed toward the back door with tears in her eyes.

            “Cora,” Derek calls.

            “Fuck off, Derek!” she retorts. “I’m fine.”

            “I’ll go,” Stiles offers. 

            “I don’t know if—”

            “She knows I get them, too,” Stiles reminds.  “Maybe she’ll drop the tough girl front for two seconds.”

            _Or she’ll continue to be an ass, but what’s new there?_

Stiles heads out before they can protest further, catching up to Cora easily enough.

            “I’m fine,” she insists again as Stiles approaches.

            “Is it in the Hale family genes to refuse to talk about problems or—”

            “Shut up.”

            “Come on, Cora, talk to me. What was that?”

            “Dunno if I should risk talking to you,” she retorts.  “I might use the wrong word.”

            “What?”

            “We don’t all lose our shit when we have a nightmare,” she informs him.  “I can hold it together. I don’t need anyone to baby me.”

            “I’m not trying to baby you,” Stiles counters, trying to ignore how her words sting.  “I just want to—”

            “Be useful?” she demands, not trying to mask the venom in the jeer.  “Or maybe you think _I’m_ the burden.”

            “Stop it, Cora,” Stiles says flatly; maybe she’s just hurting and embarrassed and so she’s lashing out.  It’s not so different than Derek, but Derek knows better than to push at the line of Stiles’ conditioning.

            “Oh, you’re right,” she replies.  “I should be good. I should be better. I shouldn’t use the words that might hurt Stiles’ delicate feelings.”

            “Cora, I’m just trying to help.  I know nightmares; I can relate. If you want to—”

            “I am _not_ like you! I’m not some weak, pathetic burden on my—”

            “I’m not a burden!” Stiles shouts before he can stop himself. 

            _Not a burden. I’m not a burden.  I’m kept and useful and loved. Not a burden. Not a burden._

            The tremors start as he fights the mantra drumming in his head. Cora’s not a higher beta.  The conditioning will bring out anger, not fear. 

            “Stop it, Cora. I’m not kidding. I don’t want to hurt you.”

            “ _You_ hurt _me_? Pretty sure I don’t have to worry about that.  Bet one smack to the face has you cowering like a—”

            “Shut up, Cora!”

            “Make me!” she challenges, shoving at Stiles.

 

*****************************************************

 

            When the distant shouting in the back yard turns to growls, Derek bolts out the door. 

            “Stop it!” he commands in the Alpha tone.  “Right now!”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

Stiles drops to his knees, perfectly still with his head bowed.  Cora shoves at him resentfully with the hand that’s not covering the bleeding wound on her side.  He lifts his head to glare at her, baring his teeth though he doesn’t fight again now that the command to stop has been given.   Cora’s a little unsteady on her feet.  Judging by Stiles’ still-healing wounds, she held her own but he was winning.

            “Cora, go to the house,” Derek commands. 

            “You’re not the boss of me, Derek. You—”

            In the blink of an eye, Stiles rises again, knocking her feet out from under her and pinning her to the ground by her throat when she falls flat on her back.

            “You will respect the Alpha! You will know your place!”

            “Let her go,” Derek orders, and Stiles retreats immediately, moving back to his kneeling position.

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “You are not permitted to hurt her, beta,” Derek says.  “You understand?”

            “Yes, Alpha. Forgive me; I—”

            “You’re not going to be punished; it’s okay.”

            “Thank you, Alpha.”

            Cora stands gaping from Derek to Stiles, seemingly at a total loss for words.

            “Go to the house,” Derek instructs again, and this time she listens, though she moves slowly, no doubt still morbidly curious about the whole situation.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek promises, “Can you stand please?”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “Look me in the eyes; can you remember my name?”

            “I would never call you by name, Alpha! I know my place. I—”

            “It’s okay,” Derek swears, remembering too late that Cora’s already given Stiles the name he needs for this.  “I’d like you to call me Derek, not Alpha.”

            “Yes, Derek.  Anything you like, Derek.”

            “Can you tell me _your_ name? Can you remember it? Can you remember anything?”

            “I’m sorry; I don’t—”

            “Close your eyes,” Derek instructs.  “Try. Try to remember what I call you.”

            Stiles does as instructed.  It’s almost a full minute before he opens his eyes again. 

            “I can’t, Alpha. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I—”

            “That’s okay,” Derek says.  “It’s okay. You’re not in any trouble.  The memories will come back soon.  We call you Stiles, okay?”  
            “Yes, Derek.”

            “That’s Cora.  She’s new. She doesn’t know the rules yet.  I’m sorry she fought you.”

            “I can help you train her, Derek,” Stiles offers. “I know how. I know how to be good. I can make her good, too. I can be useful, not a burden, I—”

            “You’re not a burden, Stiles,” Derek swears.  “Never, _ever_ a burden.  You’re a very good beta.”

            “Thank you, Derek.”

            “Follow me to the house, please.”

            “Yes, Derek.”

            Derek glares at Cora as he approaches the porch.  Stiles eyes her warily as he walks past.  Isaac’s waiting by the table; his face is determinedly blank.

            “Stiles, this is Isaac,” Derek says.  “He’s going to explain how things work here, okay? I need to go speak with Cora.”

            “Yes, Derek.”

            “I’m fine,” Cora says when Derek comes back out.  “I kind of started it anyway. I used trigger words. I didn’t realize—I didn’t think it was that bad. I—”

            “The hell you didn’t,” Derek retorts angrily.  “I explained it to you; you fucking knew that—”

            “I did not! You barely—”

            “I _told_ you that you should—”

            “Derek!” Isaac scolds from inside the house. “Calm it down or get out of earshot.”

            He takes a deep breath, reining in the urge to tell Cora exactly what he thinks of her careless, cruel actions.

            _I told you to be careful around him, dammit.  Can’t you ever just listen?_

It occurs to him that the thought sounds an awful lot like Laura.

            “We’ll talk about this later,” Derek says.  “If you plan to stay here, follow our lead and don’t upset him.  Otherwise you can go stay at the McCalls’ or the sheriff’s until his memories come back.”

            “How long will that take?”

            “I don’t know,” Derek answers honestly.  “A couple hours, a couple weeks, it’s anyone’s guess.”

            “Shit,” she mutters, guilt on her face increases. “I’m sorry, Derek I—”

            “Save it,” he interrupts.  “I don’t want to hear it right now.  I said we’ll talk later.”

            “Yeah, okay.”

 

***********************************************************

 

            “Stiles?”

            “Yes, Derek?”

            “Cora will help you with dinner.  Let her know what you’d like her to do.”

            _I’d like her to stay the hell away.  She’s bad. She’s disrespectful.  I don’t need her to help me.  I can be useful on my own._

“Yes, Derek.”

            Derek leaves them, going back to the den where he’s watching television with the Second.  Cora reaches for the onion Stiles hasn’t added to the sauce yet.

            “No,” Stiles tells her.  “You make the pie.  Less likely you’ll mess it up.”

            “I’m not going to mess it up. I know how to cook.”

            “You make the pie,” Stiles repeats, pointing to the counter where the ingredients wait.   He should strike her to reinforce the command, but Derek says that’s not allowed.

            “Yeah, okay.”

            “Follow the recipe carefully.”

            “Peach?”

            “Yes.”

            “He doesn’t even like peach.”

            Stiles hesitates, eyes glancing left as though he could see the Alpha through the walls.

            _The Second said the Alpha had no preference.  He said anything in the kitchen was fine._

He narrows his eyes suspiciously. 

            “You’re lying.”

            “Why would I lie? I don’t give a shit what you make, dude.  I’m just saying maybe something else would—”

            “Cora,” Derek says from the doorway, and Stiles starts just a little at the Alpha’s appearance.  “Stiles asked you to make a peach pie, so you make a peach pie.”

            “You hate peaches.  You’ve always hated—”

            “Derek, I’m sorry. I didn’t remember. The Second said—” he begins just in case she’s not lying.

            “Cora’s mistaken.  Peach is fine, Stiles, thank you,” Derek interrupts. 

            “Of course, Derek. We’re glad to.”

            Stiles turns back to chopping the peppers as Derek leaves, but once he hears the Alpha’s footsteps fade he crosses the kitchen to corner Cora.  He plants his hands firmly to the cabinets on either side of her, blocking her from escaping

            “You can’t hurt me,” she reminds, and he smiles at the tremble in her voice.

            _That’s right.  You’re starting to learn. I could hurt you if he would let me._

“If you _ever_ lie to me again,” he warns darkly, “I will—”

            “I wasn’t lying to you. I—”

            He slams his palm hard into the cabinet by her head, startling her to silence.

            “Everything okay in there?” Derek calls from the den.  

            “I’m sorry, Alpha,” Stiles calls back, voice carefully high-pitched and submissive again.  “We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

            “Is everything okay?”

            “Yes, Derek,” he replies readily, glaring at Cora until she chimes in, “Yeah, we’re good.”

            “You should address him properly,” Stiles mutters, going back to stir the sauce.  “Did no one ever teach you how to be good?”

            “They tried,” she replies.  “Never did take. Guess you’re just a better beta than me.”

            “I know.”

            “God, you are so—never mind.”

            “Best you just hold your tongue until you recognize your place,” he advises.  “It’s going to get you into trouble.”

            _And I won’t go down with you.  I’m a good beta.  I’ll be kept long after your burdensome, lying, disrespectful ass is cut from the pack._

*************************************************

 

            Stiles agrees to the sedative easily enough.  Derek can’t wait until Stiles is out and he can finally give Cora a piece of his mind.   It seems he’s not the only one harboring that idea though, because literally the moment Stiles’ eyes flutter closed Isaac all but sprints for the door.

            “Isaac, what’s—”

            He catches up just in time to see Isaac throw Cora back into the living room wall.  The pictures clatter and fall from their hooks and a few of the glass panes shatter.

            “You bitch,” Isaac rages throwing a punch that lands squarely on Cora’s jaw.

            They’re fighting furiously in the next moment.  Derek finally manages to get between them, holding one in each hand as they continue to swing at each other around him. 

“If you _ever_ trigger him to a regression on purpose again I will _rip your fucking throat out_ so help me God!”  Isaac fumes.  “You hear me?!”

            “Isaac, stop it!” Derek insists.

            “Don’t you dare defend her! Don’t you fucking dare! She—”

            “She was a stupid, inconsiderate ass,” Derek agrees, and Isaac stops his struggle against Derek’s hold for the first time.  “I know.  I’m not arguing that. I’m not—just—you two can’t tear each other apart.”

            “Wanna bet?” he mutters darkly.

            “Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Cora replies.  “Jeez.”

            “No, it’s not ‘okay’!” Isaac retorts.  “He has enough to deal with without his fucking _packmates_ adding to it! What if you trigger and he doesn’t come back? What about the time he’ll lose because he’s regressed? Jackson’s birthday is in two days, and now we either have to move it or Stiles misses it.  It’s not a fucking game! It’s not teasing! It’s his life, and I’d like to see your judgmental ass handle it any better! I will—”

            “I get it! Would you stop?”

            Isaac pulls away from Derek to storms toward the back door. 

 

*********************************

 

            Derek watches Isaac leave, itching to follow but unwilling to leave Stiles here with just Cora while he’s conditioned, regardless of the sedation.  It’s probably for the best; any conversation with Isaac right now would probably just end in a fight.  Cora’s inspecting her healing wounds, none too bad though Isaac inflicted an impressive amount of damage in such a short time.

            “I’m fine,” she asserts when Derek reaches to draw some of the pain.

            “Better you feel, the faster you’ll heal,” he replies quietly.

            She rolls her eyes.  “Nice to see you’re carrying on Dad’s love of cheesy ass proverbs.”

            “Cora,” he says somberly, ignoring the nostalgia that the comment brings to the surface.

            “Don’t do it again; I know. I get it.”

            “If you do,” Derek says. “If you ever, _ever_ send Stiles into a regression because you were pushing him or teasing him, you are out of this pack, you understand me?”

            “ _Derek_ —”

            “You said it yourself, there’s a lot of attention on us; there’s a lot of potential for threats.  We have to be united; we’re a family, but not—it’s not the way things used to be.  You’re not a kid anymore.  No one here can afford to be a kid anymore.”

            “I know.  I’m eighteen years old, Derek.  I can—”

            “You don’t get a place just because you’re blood; you earn it with your loyalty and—”

            “Don’t quote Mom to me! You’re not her! You’re not Laura! You weren’t even supposed to be Alpha!”

            “But I am,” he replies, hoping she can’t see the sting of the words in his expression.  “And I’m not fucking around with this pack.  We’ve got enough to worry about without tearing ourselves apart from the inside.  You made a mistake. What’s done is done.  I just want you to know there’s no room for it to happen again.  Clear?”

            “Crystal,” she huffs with a roll of her eyes.  “Done with the lecturing?”

            “Guess so.”

            “Good.  I’m going to bed.”

            “You’re not healed yet. You—”

            “I’m _fine._ ”

 

****************************************

 

            “Can I help?” Cora asks, walking into the kitchen where Stiles is making breakfast.

            “I don’t need help,” he replies absentmindedly, not letting his focus waver from the task at hand.

            _You’re more worry than help. Go away.  Go ask the Second or the Alpha what you should do. Leave me alone._

 “I want to be useful,” she persists, and he pauses, turning to look at her.  “Like you,” she adds.

            “I don’t—”

            “You told Derek you could help train me,” she says. 

            “Derek didn’t tell me to train you; he said not to hurt you.”

            “You could teach me without hurting me though. Show me what to do; let me help.”

            Stiles doesn’t like the idea.  She’s too much risk.  He opens his mouth to tell her to go ask for directions herself just as Derek walks in.

            “Morning, Cora.  You helping Stiles with breakfast?” he asks, and the smile on his face is wide and pleased at the prospect.  

            “If he doesn’t mind,” she replies, looking to Stiles.

            “I can teach you,” he offers, and Derek’s smile widens even more so he adds, “I don’t mind.”

            “Thank you, Stiles.”

            “Of course, Derek. Would you like more coffee?”

            “Yes, thank you.”

            “Cora, watch the sausage,” Stiles instructs, and he’s pleased to see she moves to obey immediately.

            _Maybe you can be taught.  Maybe. We’ll see._

He takes Derek’s cup, emptying the cold dregs from the bottom and refilling with fresh.  Two sugars, no cream, like the first cup he allowed Stiles to make. 

            “It should be ready soon, Derek.”

“Thank you, Stiles,” Derek says, taking the mug back with a smile.  “Take it all to the table once it’s ready.  We’ll eat together like last night.”

“Yes, Derek.”

The Alpha goes back out on the porch where he’s been with the Second while Stiles prepares the food.

            “Keep watching those,” Stiles tells Cora.  “I’ll make toast.”

            “Yes, Stiles,” she replies, and he smiles at the address; she has had more training than she’s let on.  She knows how to behave; she just doesn’t. 

            “When I get the toast in the oven, turn the eggs on again, low, so they’ll be warm when we move everything to the table.”

            “Yes, Stiles.”

 

******************************************************

Isaac listens intently to the conversation—or lack thereof really—going on in the kitchen between Stiles and Cora.  He’s guessing from the look on concentration on Derek’s face that he’s doing the same.  It’s not what Stiles expected, hearing Cora offer herself up as a beta in need of training.  It’s not an option they’ve had before.  Stiles has always been the lowest beta.  Isaac’s not sure if this is a good thing or a bad, but he supposes they’ll see soon enough.

            _She just better not be fucking with him._

As the day wears on, Cora’s efforts seem genuine enough.  She asks Stiles questions, does as he tells her, and earns his praise.  By mid-afternoon he’s visibly warming to her, smiling when she does something without being asked.  It’s not until dinner, though, that Isaac finally understands where she’s been going with this.  They finish dinner, and before Stiles can rise to clear the table, Cora does. 

            “May I take it, Derek?” she asks, reaching for his cleared plate. 

            Derek looks up in surprise, but nods. 

            “Yes, Cora, thank you.”

            “Stiles is teaching me what to do,” she answers.

            “I see he’s doing a good job,” Derek compliments, and it’s impossible to miss the way Stiles beams at the praise.

            In one moment that she’s been building up to all day, she succeeds in relieving Stiles, at least in part, of his subservient duties.  He’s been useful because he’s the one who taught her, but he doesn’t actually have to do all the work anymore.  He can delegate.  There’s someone below him to pick up slack.  They can confirm the idea that he’s useful “just by existing” as he says sometimes.  That’s how Derek, Isaac, and Stiles end up in the den watching television with Stiles perhaps the most contentedly relaxed Isaac’s ever seen him when he was regressed and didn’t have a task.  Stiles rises a few times to go to the kitchen where Cora’s cleaning.  He compliments her for a job well done, and Derek praises them both. 

 

*************************************************************

 

            “You were good with him today,” Derek tells Cora when he walks out on the front porch where she occupies one of the several swings. 

            “Least I could do.”

            “Can I sit?”

            “Free country.”

            The question’s been weighing on his mind since the afternoon.  He debated even mentioning it at all, but, in the end, he can’t help it.

            “Last night, when you were helping Stiles with dinner, he asked if anyone trained you, and you said ‘they tried’.”

            “So?”

            “So, you—today you—who taught you to—”

            “I was just following Stiles’ lead.”

            “ _Cora_ —”

            “I’m not talking out some sob story with you, Derek,” she says firmly.  “I’m not.  Yes, other Alphas tried to teach me to be obedient. No, it didn’t take so well.  No, they didn’t break me like Stiles was broken. They just roughed me up and then kicked me out when that didn’t’ work.  There’s your story.  Not every pack is a happy little family pack, but if you and Laura were on your own after the fire, you already know that.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m here now, and perfectly content being a pain in your ass, _but_ if taking your plate to the kitchen gives him like three seconds’ peace of mind after I’m the asshole who triggered him back to this nutcase state, then I’ll tote your damn plate and act like a good little beta, okay?  And I’ll do it again tomorrow, but don’t fucking think I’m doing shit around the house once Stiles is back to normal.  I just—figured it was better than a pointless apology.”

            “It was awesome,” Derek says. “Seriously, you didn’t—you didn’t _have_ to make it up to him, but if you were trying it was the perfect thing to do.”

            “I know,” she replies flippantly.  “Did you forget how brilliant I am?” she wonders with a halfhearted punch to his shoulder.

            _I didn’t forget much about you, but there’s a whole lot I’ve missed in seven years._

“No,” he replies, “and speaking of that, have you gone to school at all since—”

            “Here and there.  Not really my first priority.”

            “You should go back. Get your GED or something at least. We’ll—uh—we’ll get you set up, ya know?  Whatever you want to do.”

            “I’m nice to Stiles and all of a sudden all the doors open?”

            “No, just—you were a team player today, not my brat little sister. I’m proud of you.”

            “You realize how condescending that sounds?”

            “Come on, I’m trying to—”

            “I made an effort and you appreciate it,” she interrupts.  “Message received, dude, can we please stop with the heart-to-heart now?”

            He laughs.  “Yeah, sure.”

            “Yep, you’re a Hale,” Isaac comment as he comes out the door.

            “So’re you, dumbass.” She pauses at the door.  “And uh—speaking of all you Hale men.   I know the Stiles regression stuff is the thing to deal with right now, but if we could look at options that _don’t_ involve me sharing a house with my brother and his two husbands, that would be awesome.  I’m not so sure any of us could survive the awkward.”

 

*******************************************************

 

            “Like what you’ve done with the place,” Stiles says as he walks into the loft Cora picked out across town. 

            Lydia tried to help with the decorating, but Cora’s got a style all her own.  Stiles would call her a hipster if it wouldn’t cost him a limb or two.  The place _feels_ like her even though she’s only been here three days.  Stiles feels bad for crashing so soon, but there’s a couple hikers missing on the preserve, so Derek, Isaac, Jackson, and Scott are out with search and rescue, trying to pretend they’re normal and still guide the teams toward the missing hikers via wolfy superpowers and whatnot.       

“It’s a work in progress, but I like it,” Cora replies.

            “So thanks for taking baby-sitting duty,” he says as he plops his duffle bag on the floor.

            “No problem,” she replies. 

            “And a second thanks for not arguing about it being baby-sitting.”

            “Bet you’re easier to watch than toddlers.  Even handled a four year old werewolf on the full moon?”

            “No.”

            “Not fun.”

            “I’ll bet.”

            “So—like—I know you can go out with the others,” she says.  “Can you go out with me? Since I’m not a higher beta? You won’t listen to me if you regress.”

            “Well, that depends,” Stiles says.

            “On?”

            “On how bad you want to go out, and, if you do want to risk it, how good you are at surreptitiously stabbing people with needles.”

            “Stabbing you with a needle.”

            “Sedative,” he replies holding up what looks like an epi pen.  “Technically even if people see it, it’s okay, just—it’s way better if I can just get the hell out of wherever we are and let this do its work.”

            “Your life kinda sucks, huh?”

            “Not as much as it used to,” he replies with a shrug.  “Come on, are we really gonna do this? I was banking on you being less protective than your brother. The others just—”

            “Hey, it’s your call.  You wanna deal with the stress of going out? Cool.  Let’s grab Thai ‘cause I’m starving, but if you wanna order it in, that works.”

            “Let’s go out,” Stiles says, praying he doesn’t regret the choice.

 

*********************************************

 

            “Hey, how’s it going with Cora?” Isaac wonders. 

            He’s trying not to freak that Stiles answered the phone and Isaac can hear some kind of crowd in the background.

            “Good; we’re grabbing food.”

            “You’re out?”

            “Yeah, no worries,” Stiles replies, “took precautions and all that.” 

            “Okay, well, still no sign of the hikers, so it’s looking like it’ll be a long night.  I’ll keep you posted.”

            “Well, good luck.”

            “Thanks.  You—uh—let us know when you’re back at Cora’s huh?”

            _Because we both know going out with just her was a risky move.  I’m not going to stop worrying until you’re back safe somewhere._

“Yeah, sure thing.”

            “Love you.”

            “Love you, too.”

 

**************************************************

 

            Everything’s fine, going without a hitch, he’s not even shaking that badly.  Cora’s actually pretty hilarious.  She’s got the same dry wit her brother does, and she seems to appreciate Stiles’ sarcasm.  Stiles wants to ask so many questions about all the time she spent out on her own.  He’s got a feeling there’s a lot they could connect on in varying degrees, but that conversation isn’t one that needs to happen now—if ever.  He’s still not sure it’s something that she’ll even want to talk about it; he hopes she does, both because he’s finally starting to learn that talking—to Morrell or Dad or Derek or Isaac or whomever—really does help in the end and because the idea of having a kindred spirit on some level is kind of great.   

            “Yeah, that’s him. Over there by the door in the red shirt.  Shaking like a fucking leaf. You’d think he’d give it up.”

            Stiles stills at the words. 

            “Come on, Russ.  He’s had a hard time and shit; don’t be a dick about it.”

            “Yeah, he had a hard time.  You know what normal people do when they get kidnapped and tortured and shit? They go to a fucking psych ward like they should.  They don’t marry murder suspects who’re probably the ones who kidnapped him in the first place for—”

            “Cora, we gotta go,” Stiles says, rising so quickly he almost knocks the chair over.  He throws money on the table to cover the bill, and all but bolts for the door.

            _Don’t listen. Don’t listen. Don’t listen.  Get out to the car. Go out to the car. Go. Go. Go._

He freezes at the sound of furniture and dishes toppling, _barely_ keeping control of the shift.  Cora’s across the restaurant.  The guy—Russ?—is getting up off the table she apparently threw him across, fuming.

            _No Cora. Don’t start a fight. Don’t. Don’t._

“What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

            “Those’re my brothers you’re talking about, asswipe.  Watch yourself, or I will rip your fucking throat out next time.  Got it?”

            She spins on her heel, heading for the door and leaving the stunned group of guys behind her.  Stiles goes on outside, shaking worse by the second, but grounded by the feeling of pack when Cora comes out and throws an arm over his shoulder.

            “You’re okay,” she says.  “He was an ass.  Sorry I didn’t get to him sooner.”

            “It’s—it’s okay—Cora—Cora, maybe you should get the sed—”

            “No.  You got it.  You got crazy, control, dude. Come on. Derek says so.  Deep breaths.”

            “Hey! You!” someone calls from the restaurant, but they don’t turn.  “You come back in here and we’ll call the cops, got it?!”

            “Shitty Thai food anyway,” she mutters.  “Come on. Let’s get milkshakes, make use of that credit card Derek got me.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Where’s your favorite place?”

            “Caroline’s.”

            “Cool.  I haven’t been there since I got back.  Lucy still put extra cherries in if you ask?”

            “Y—yeah. Yeah, she does.”

            _Caroline’s to see Lucy with Cora. She’s pack.  She’ll fight; I don’t have to. Safe and it doesn’t matter. Pack and okay. It’s all okay. I’m okay._

“You did good back there, dude,” Cora says. 

            “Thanks.”

            _You did good, too. We did good. We’re good._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE HUGE shout out to Christopher for the idea of bringing Cora in and having her trigger Stiles! I'm excited to explore her a bit more as things progress! 
> 
> Another shout to Kinthinia for her bigots prompts
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed!


	19. I won't be no runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a mix of things really, all set into motion as the collegiate academic year starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that the timeline for the last scenes of "twisted sister" and the first scenes of this one overlap slightly. Fun fact? :)
> 
> Title from The National song

            “If you don’t take classes, I won’t take classes,” Stiles persists, fists clenching to hide the shaking that’s started as Derek continues to resist this plan.  “That’s all there is to it.”

            “Stiles, it’s not—there’s no point in me getting a degree.”

            “You didn’t let me use that argument, so you can’t use it either.  You’re two fucking classes away from it.  You should finish.”

            “It’s a waste of time and money. I’m not gong to—”

            Scott’s horn beeps twice from outside, interrupting the argument.  Stiles would never admit how glad he is to hear it.  He doesn’t want to lose this fight, but he’s not sure how much longer his control was going to hold.  Stiles turns his back on Derek as he heads out to meet Scott.

            “I’ll order your books while I’m at the store,” he tells Derek.  “Everything’s already set. You’re enrolled, and you’re fucking finishing college, Derek.”

            “That’s not your decision to—”

            Stiles shuts the door on the statement. 

            _Maybe he’s right.  Maybe it’s not my decision._

 _Of course it’s not,_ Thomas chastises.  _It’s not your place to question the Alpha’s decisions, you little wretch.  Mind your place.  Be grateful he doesn’t rip out your tongue for your insolence. Beg forgiveness. Turn around and beg him to overlook this insubordinate—”_

“No,” Stiles mutters.  “It’s good for him. He worked hard to get that far. He deserves to finish. He should.  I’m not being bad; I’m helping.  It’ll be good.  I’m good. It’ll be good.”

            “Derek still fighting the idea of going back?” Scott guesses as Stiles gets in.

            “He’s being a stubborn ass,” Stiles confirms with a nod, thankful for a conversation to pull him out of his head.  “Why can’t he just go for it? What the hell is it going to hurt?”

            “I dunno, dude.  It’s Derek.  He’s almost as stubborn as you.”

            “Fuck off,” Stiles replies with a grin.

            “So I was thinking bookstore and then DQ?”

            “Hell yeah. I would murder a furry woodland creature to get a blizzard right now.”

           

**************************************************

 

The frustration bubbles to the surface the moment Stiles is out the door.

_Why is he so fucking stubborn? Why can’t he just leave it alone?_

            “We’ll talk about it again later, Derek,” Isaac soothes. “It’ll—”

            “And what?! He’s using himself as fucking blackmail to make me go back. He won’t even fucking let me finish a goddamn sentence!” Derek rants, smacking the empty coffee mug that’s sitting on the counter. 

            It shatters against the kitchen wall.  Out of the corner of his eye, Derek sees Isaac full-body flinch, taking a quick step back as his arm comes up to cover his face.  By the time Derek turns to face him, his hands are back by his sides, and his face is blank.

            “Isaac?” he says, anger draining into guilt.

            “What?” Isaac asks, feigning confusion.

            “Why did you—what was that?”

            “What was what?”

            “I saw you; when I broke it you—”

            “Dude, you startled me. I jumped back.  What’d you expect?”

            “That wasn’t—that wasn’t startled—that was—”

            _I triggered something._

_Oh fuck. I triggered something._

_How many times have I done that and you just covered it up?_  

            “It was nothing,” Isaac insists.  “I jumped.  Don’t make fun.”

            “I’m not making fun, and you know it. How often does that happen?”

            “Nothing happened!”

            “Yes, it did, Isaac,” he can feel the frustration building again and tries his best to keep it in check.  “Come on, talk to me.”

            “ _You_ wanna talk?” Isaac teases, still trying to be nonchalant. “Yeah, right. It’s really fine, Derek.  Don’t worry—”

            “Don’t worry? Don’t worry that you’re scared of me? That’s not exactly something I can—”

            “I’m not _scared_ of you.”

            “No?”

            “Look, dude, you get angry and you hit shit or break shit or whatever to vent it.  It’s fine. It’s not like I think you’re going to hit _me._ I’m fine too.  It’s how it always works; no big deal.”

            “I should’ve noticed; I shouldn’t—you shouldn’t—”

            _We’ve been married nearly a year—plus time before that.  How have I not noticed this? What the hell is wrong with me?_

            “Derek, I’m _fine_ ,” Isaac insists.

            “No, you’re not, but you’re pretending to be,” Derek counters.  “Are you always pretending to be?” he wonders quietly.

            “I’m not pretending.  I’m really okay. Nothing to worry about.”

“Yes there is something to worry about.  This is what Stiles does, but you’re better at it than Stiles.”

“I’m not _that_ bad.”

“No,” Derek agrees, “and that means you can hide it, which is maybe worse.”

_How long have you been hiding it, Isaac? Why would you keep hiding it? Because you don’t want me to worry, don’t want me to see the problem; you just brush past it for the sake of not rocking the boat? Like Stiles tries to but fails? Letting my venting push at your trauma because you always fucking put everyone before yourself.  Dammit Isaac.  You shouldn’t let shit like this happen. You should say something. You should stick up for yourself with us._

“It barely ever happens, okay?” Isaac promises.  “Just once in a while when I don’t realize how pissed you are.  It’s not—it’s not all the time or anything.  No big deal. I swear I’m fine.”

            “I’ll get better about it,” Derek swears.  “I’ll work on it, okay? I’ll—I’ll figure out something else to—to vent or whatever.”

            _Because I’ve never thought twice about venting in front of you.  I never once stopped to consider that you might be affected by the outbursts. I just took for granted how strong I think you are—like I always do._

            “Derek, come on,’ Isaac pleads.  “It’s not that big of a deal. You’re not going to scare me back into conditioning or something. Two seconds and I’m fine.”

            “Tell me you didn’t remember your dad just then,” Derek challenges.  “Tell me I didn’t send you back to that.”

            “Two seconds and I was fine.  It’s _okay_.”

            “No, it’s not okay. I don’t want you back there. No even for two seconds.” He closes his eyes against the thought, not wanting the terrified teenager he turned to flash across his mind.  “I don’t want you back there _ever_. Not because of me.”

            “Derek—”

            “I’ll get better. I _promise_ you.  I do it for Stiles, and you don’t deserve a damn thing less.”

            Isaac approaches him slowly, arms wrapping around Derek once he’s close enough, and Derek holds him back.

            “I love you, you know that?” Isaac asks quietly.  “Anger and guilt and dry wit and that goddamn grin you get whenever you talk about the pack these days and— _everything_ Derek. You don’t have to be perfect.”

            _But I have to be better._

He doesn’t say that out loud though, because it sounds too much like Stiles.  It’s the truth though, he has to be better, and he can be—for Isaac and Stiles he’d do a hell of a lot more than struggle to keep anger in check.  He still doesn’t know how the hell they haven’t left him yet—not only haven’t left but have promised to stay—and Derek’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to be the partner they think he is.

He can’t figure out how to say that or if he should try or how to keep Isaac from arguing Derek doesn’t need to worry or change.  Instead he leans in to kiss him, soft and slow, hand drifting to the small of Isaac’s back to pull him in closer, hoping the action speaks louder than the words he can’t find.

           

*****************************************************************

 

There’s a flutter of excitement in Isaac as he takes a seat on the fourth row of the lecture hall.  This is it: his first college class. It’s really happening; despite all the insanity life has had to offer, this one normal thing is still happening.  Not only is it happening, it’s _his._ Sure, Scott’s somewhere on campus sitting in a chemistry class.  Lydia and Jackson have gone off to Stanford.  Stiles is taking online classes, and Derek’s enrolled in a night class.  They’re all going to college in one form or another, but this major, this class, this experience is Isaac’s alone.  As much as he loves his pack and his partners, he feels long overdue for something that makes him feel like an individual. 

            “Good morning class,” an older man with a receding hairline and salt and pepper mustache greets.  “I’m Dr. Nash  I’ll be your professor for Introduction to Psychology.”

 

**********************************************************

 

            _This is so stupid,_ Derek grumbles mentally as he walks from the car toward the aging math building of Beacon Hills Community College. 

            It smells of mildew and paint and the various students and professors who walk the halls.  Derek meanders down the hall until he finds the room number Stiles wrote on a post-it for him.  It’s an office, not a classroom, so he knocks.

            “Come in,” a voice instructs. 

            “I think—I think I have the wrong room number.”

            “Are you Derek Hale?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then you’ve got it right.  Hi, I’m Professor Angela Chase.”

            “Hi,” he replies, shaking the hand she offers. 

            The crow’s feet around her eyes lessen but don’t disappear when her smile wanes.   Her white hair is pulled back into a tight bun.  She’s studying him from across her paper-covered desk, and he thinks for just a moment of simply turning around and leaving.

            “This isn’t a class, is it?” he wonders. 

_Stiles, you little shit._

“It’s class credit,” she replies, “but you are indeed the only student, Mr. Hale.”

            “I thought—”

            “You supposed a community college offered a night course on Advanced Differential Equations? I would assume a young man six hours shy of a degree in mathematics would have a bit more logical sense.”

            “I just—”

            “It’s an independent study course.”

            “Stiles set this up,” he guesses rather than letting out the many retorts to her jabs he’d like to loose.

            “He assisted,” she confirms, “but in truth you owe this entirely to Lydia Martin.”

            “Lydia?”

            “Her grandmother and I attended graduate school together,” she says.  “Colleen and I were the only two women in our field; you can imagine we became rather close.   When her granddaughter asks a favor, I do what I can to help.”

            “Oh.”

            “This is your syllabus for the semester,” she goes on, holding out a piece of paper.  “Look over it carefully.  I’d like you to take the first week to review, since you’ve had a lengthy hiatus in your studies.  We’ll begin with chapter one next time we meet.”       “Okay,” Derek agrees, looking down at the daunting list of topics he’s got to review.

            “I intend the rigor of this course to match that of your previous university, so don’t expect an easy A.  Your professors spoke very highly of you Mr. Hale; don’t waste my time pretending you’re anything less than a brilliant student.”

            “I—it’s not—”

            “You’re dismissed,” she says curtly, not allowing him to deflect the compliment. 

            He’s responding to the words, turning to leave and fighting the urge to grumble at being bossed around. 

            _Well, this is going to be interesting. That’s for sure._

************************************************************

            Isaac meets David at the library like they planned.  He texts to say he’s found them a study room, and Isaac’s glad to see he’s got books spread everywhere, already searching for potential topics for their term project.

            “How long have you been here?” Isaac wonders.

            “Oh, it looks more impressive than it is,” David assures. “I just tend to go about a million directions at once before I can hone in on something.  I’ve only been here half an hour or so.”

            “Cool, so what’re you thinking?” Isaac wonders, taking a seat.

            They brainstorm ideas a while before finally settling in on an idea.  As they work, they talk about everything from the Giants’ prospects this year to the new Arcade Fire album.  Turns out David’s got insanely good taste in music.  He teases Isaac when he catches him mouthing along to the lyrics, and Isaac can’t help laughing at himself. 

            _This is the most relaxed I’ve been outside the pack in ages._

“So what’re you doing after this?” David wonders.  “My brain’s going to start leaking out my ears if we don’t wrap it up soon.”

            “Uh—going home I guess,” Isaac says with a shrug. 

            “I’m grabbing coffee with Alicia, Megan and Chris,” David says, “if you want to come?”

            “I should get home,” Isaac says.   “I’ve got—”

            It’s only then that Isaac realizes there’s nothing he’s _got_ to do.  Derek and Stiles are fine on their own.  Sure he wants to get home to them, but an hour’s difference won’t affect anything much.  He can take a chance to be a little more of a normal college kid.

            “Actually, yeah,” Isaac says.  “I think I will come. If you’re sure that’s cool with them or whatever?”

            “Awesome,” David says with a smile.  “Yeah, they won’t mind.”

           

 

********************************************************

 

            Isaac gets home late, but Derek bites back a comment about it.  Isaac’s allowed to be normal.  He’s allowed to change plans without putting out an all points bulletin.  It’s no big deal; Derek can almost overlook it entirely.

            Except he smells like another guy, and it’s driving Derek insane.

            _It’s nothing. It’s nothing. I can’t let my possessive instincts make me paranoid. Just because he smells like a specific person instead of the usual crowd doesn’t mean a damn thing._

            “So—uh—the project stuff went good?” Derek wonders.

            “Yeah, really good.  I was kinda scared I’d get stuck with someone who was gonna half-ass it, but David’s gonna be a good partner I think.  He wants to get his Master’s eventually, just didn’t have the grades right out of college to start off somewhere bigger.  Kinda put a chip on his shoulder I think, and he’s serious about getting a 4.0 so he can impress when it’s time for grad school.”

            “That’s cool.”

            “Yeah.”

            Isaac goes on, talking about the topic they chose and the other people they met for coffee after.  Derek should be happy.  He really should, and he is.  Isaac should be able to grow socially like this.  It’s a healthy part of college life.  So Derek plasters on a smile, nodding and responding in all the right places. 

            “So they’re going to try out that new pizza place on Mulberry tomorrow night,” Isaac says.  “I thought I might go?”

            “Yeah, let us know how it is,” Stiles agrees readily enough. 

            “You guys could meet us if you want,” Isaac says.  “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

            “Rain check for me,” Stiles says.  “I’ve got my first online exam at six tomorrow.”

            “Shit, I forgot.  I can bring you some back.  Your reward for surviving?”

            “Yeah,” Stiles agrees with a smile.  “You can go if you want, Derek.  I’m fine here for an hour or two.”

            Derek still hates leaving Stiles home alone, even though they agreed a few weeks ago they needed to start testing the waters with it. 

            “I’ve got a mountain of homework, for that goddamn math class,” he replies with a frown; it’s not a lie.  This independent study is kicking his ass.  “Bring me some back too.”

            “Oh, stop pouting,” Stiles tells him.  “You fucking love that shit.  I heard you on the phone with Lydia yesterday.”

            “Fuck off.”

            The truth of the matter is that Lydia’s grasping concepts so fast she’s going to pass Derek’s understanding in a year, two at the most.  It’s scarily impressive, as per the Lydia standard.  He’s pretty sure she calls more as an excuse to check in that he’s not wasting Professor Chase’s time than anything.  

            “I think it’s cool you’re helping her with her homework,” Isaac says.  “Very Pack Mom of you.”

            Derek rolls his eyes.  “I’m not the fucking Pack Mom.  I’m the Alpha.”

            “Same difference,” Isaac teases.

            “You suck,” Derek informs him.

            “Yes, yes I do,” Isaac says, licking his lips just a little before breaking the sultry moment with a huff of laughter.  “But not ‘til after dessert,” he amends, heading for the kitchen where Stiles’ famous German chocolate cake is waiting.

 

*************************************************************

 

            “Isaac?”

Stiles turns with him, managing not to jump at the unfamiliar voice.

            “Oh, hey, David,” Isaac greets.  “What’s up?”

            “Just grabbing a couple things, you know, the essentials,” he jokes with a nod to the peanut butter, ramen noodles, and three boxes of cereal in his basket.  “Not quite as adventurous as you,” he admits with a look to their buggy teeming with all the ingredients for Stiles’ latest endeavors in the kitchen.

            “Nah, man, Stiles is the cook,” Isaac corrects.  “I nearly burned the house down last time I was in charge of dinner.”

            “Oh, cool, so you’re Stiles?” David asks, offering a hand.  “Good to put a face with the name.”

            It takes Stiles too long to reach his own hand out to shake David’s, but he manages it without _too_ much delay.  His tremors aren’t too bad either. 

            “Yeah, you too,” Stiles agrees, forcing a smile that can’t possibly look as nonchalant as he wants it to.

            _Now you see why I’m always busy when Isaac has plans with you guys.  Now you see why I’m not at school with him.  Pathetic, quaking, face to put with the name. Great. Just fucking great._

“So we’re going to catch the new Avengers movie at midnight,” David says.  “You guys interested?”

            Stiles wants to. _God_ he wants to so badly, but they’ve already planned it.  As much as Stiles loves midnight premieres, he doesn’t want the movie ruined by the crushing anxiety that would come with a packed theatre. 

            “Nah, we’re going to see the late show tomorrow,” Isaac replies, and even though he smiles after the statement, Stiles knows he’d love to go tonight—for his friends and for the movie they’ve all been waiting for.

            _I’m not going to be the reason that stops him._

“You should go,” Stiles encourages.  “You can make sure it doesn’t disappoint and then catch it again with me and Derek tomorrow.”

            “Yeah,” David agrees.  “You should come.  Nothing beats a midnight premiere.  It’ll be great.”

            “I—I’m good. I—”

            “Go,” Stiles persists.  “I know you want to.  I promise we won’t disown you for seeing it without us.  Just no spoilers or I’ll end you,” he warns.

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Awesome,” David says.  “See you tonight then? I’ll text you once Chris tells me what the plans are.”

            “Yeah, sounds good,” Isaac agrees, smiling so genuinely that Stiles knows it was the right choice to push him to go.

            _One of us should get to be a normal fanboy.  I’ll live vicariously. There are worse things._

****************************************************************

 

            Isaac soaks in the excitement of his fellow fans as they wait in the packed lobby for the theatres to open. The place is abuzz to the point the anticipation is nearly palpable.  David’s going on about how brilliant Whedon is and which beloved character he’s sure to take down this time around, Isaac’s nodding and smiling and trying not to feel too guilty that Stiles isn’t here for this.

            _He’d love this—if he could handle it.  A ton of people well versed in his favorite comics, talking theories on plot, reviewing all the prequels, it’s the kinda of shit he loves to dig into.   He should be here. He should have these moments._

But Isaac knows Stiles was right to pass up the night.  There’re too many people, too many variables, too many bright lights and loud noises. 

            _He swore he didn’t mind.  He and Derek are marathoning some of the prequels at home.  We’ll all see it tomorrow._

_Stiles specifically said to go out, have fun, and not dare feel guilty._

Isaac does his best to let the nagging feeling go, focusing instead on enjoying the experience.  It’s not long before he’s lost in the moment and then in the movie, drinking in the awesomeness of everything premiere nights should be.

            “Holy shit! That was fucking fantastic!” David raves as they leave the theatre.  “Makes me want to just go kick ass, ya know?”

            “Yeah,” Isaac agrees wholeheartedly, though his yawn gives away just how much he’s feeling the late—early?—hour. 

            He agrees to David’s request to be dropped home; David doesn’t have a car, and they lost Stacy and Chris in the crowd.  Isaac’s fighting to keep his eyes open even on the short drive to David’s apartment.

            “You should come up for a minute,” David suggests.  “Grab some coffee so you don’t fucking fall asleep at the wheel going home.”

            “Nah, I should get—”

            “Two seconds to chug some caffeine,” David goes on.  “You need some and you know it.”

            Isaac sighs heavily, knowing the caffeine will only give him a minimal boost.  Still, he is totally wiped.  He just needs enough energy to get home.  Two minutes won’t hurt.   Derek and Stiles are asleep already anyways. 

Isaac takes a seat on David’s couch while David goes to brew up some coffee.

 

****************************************************

 

            “Bet he just went for food after,” Stiles says when the hall clock chimes four and Isaac’s still not home.  “That’s what me and Scott used to do.”

            “Yeah,” Derek agrees.

            They’ve been in bed for an hour, but neither have gotten anywhere near sleep.  Derek’s trying his best not to worry, but it’s in his nature _and_ his instincts.  He rarely falls asleep anymore without having both Stiles and Isaac home safe.

            “You know he could be normal if it wasn’t for us,” Stiles says quietly.

            It’s a topic he’s breached more than once.  Derek knows as well as Stiles that having an abusive parent is a tragically common trauma.  It’s Stiles’ and Derek’s issues that really hold Isaac back from the carefree young adult he could be.

            “He’s happy, Stiles,” Derek responds because it’s true.  “Nobody’s life is perfect.”

            “Yeah, but—having college friends, going out to movies, all this shit.  It shouldn’t be so much of a treat. It should be the norm.  You’ve seen how much good the past few months of a little normalcy on his own have done.  He—”

            “Stop it,” Derek says firmly.  “Isaac had a choice when he asked us to marry him; he has a choice now.  If he didn’t want to be here, he wouldn’t be.”

            “Yes, he would.  He gives up shit for us all the time. He—”

            “Stop. It,” Derek says more harshly than he means to.  “Leave it alone, Stiles.  Isaac’s fine. We’re all fine. We’re together.  Lemonade out of lemons and all that shit,” he goes on, quoting one of Isaac’s favorite idioms. 

            “You’re right,” Stiles replies with a sigh.  “I just—I dunno.”

            _You feel guilty he can’t be normal.  I know. So do I._

_But he’s happy with us. He loves us.  Happiness and love are more important than “normal”, right?_

******************************************************************

 

            Fingers brush Isaac’s hair gently out of his face before soft lips meet his in a slow kiss.

            _Incorrigible Stiles,_ Isaac thinks fondly.  _Always going for morning sex when he knows damn well I have class._

“Morning, Sunshine,” David says as the kiss breaks off. 

            “What the fuck?!” Isaac demands pulling back and remembering now the events of last night; he must have dozed off on the couch.

            “What?” David asks, eyes wide and innocent. 

            “I’m _married_!”

            “Come on, Isaac,” David says, running one hand down Isaac’s arm until Isaac shoves it away.  “You’re not married; you’re trapped. Anybody can see that.”

            “You don’t know shit about—I’m not _trapped_!”

            “No? The head case who can’t even get out to meet your friends and the angry orphan? Anyone would pity them, but you can’t be afraid to—”

            Isaac shoves David so hard he topples to the floor.  He’s shaking at the words, struggling to rein in the fury.

            “You shut the fuck up.”

            “They don’t have to know,” David says.  “You deserve a little—”

            “Infidelity?” Isaac retorts.  “I don’t know what the hell you thought was going to happen, but—”

            “I’ve seen how you look at me sometimes,” David interrupts.  “The green shirt that drives you nuts.  Those black jeans.”

            “Shut up,” Isaac commands, turning his back to David, and hating himself for the truth in David’s assertion. 

            _You’re fucking attractive, okay? Of course I looked, but—it was just looking.  I didn’t mean—I don’t want this._

“David, I can’t. I won’t—I—”

            When he rounds to face him, David’s lips crash into Isaac’s, demanding and fierce, before Isaac can even think.  He doesn’t know if it’s reflex or want that has him kissing back for just a moment before he pulls back again.

            “No,” he says again, embarrassedly breathless, pushing David back again. 

            He makes it two steps toward the door before four harsh knocks startle him back. 

 

**********************************************************

 

            David answers the door in his pajama bottoms, not that Derek’s surprised.  It’s six in the morning after all. 

            “Hey—uh—Isaac didn’t come home last night and—” Derek begins, though Isaac’s car is parked down on the street and this is the only logical place he’d be.

            David swings the door the rest of the way open, revealing Isaac standing just a few feet back, hair just a little tousled, eyes wide, and lips wet and like he’s just—

            It all clicks together in the next moment.  As Derek’s eyes go from Isaac’s lips to David’s and he realizes just how much of Isaac’s scent is emanating from David.  Isaac’s breath is on David’s lips, and there’s no mistaking it now that Derek’s trying to take in what he doesn’t want to.

            “Derek, it’s not what you—I can explain, okay? I—”

            The words sound like an admission to the small bit of Derek still controlled by any form of reason. 

            “Save it,” he spits, turning on his heel and using every ounce of sanity left to keep from shifting to full Alpha and venting his wrath on them both.  

 

********************************************************

 

            Isaac shoves past David, chasing and calling after Derek even after he’s slammed the Camaro door and started to drive away.

            _Fuck. No. No, Derek no. You can’t think I would—I didn’t—it’s not what you think!_

He fumbles for his keys, cursing as he realizes they’re back up in David’s apartment.  David opens the door on the first knock with a knowing smile, like he expected Isaac to come back.

            “If you ever come near me again, so help me God I’ll kill you,” Isaac says coldly.  “Give me my keys, and I’m gone.”

            “Isaac, come on.  We’ve got classes together. We—it was one little misunderstanding.”

            “No, it was you being a home-wrecking asshole and me nearly letting you get away with it.  What the hell is wrong with you?” Isaac demands. “Get out of the way. I’ll get the keys myself,” he says pushing David aside.

            David keeps talking, but Isaac tunes it out.  He spots his keys on the table, grabs them, and bolts back out toward his car.  Derek probably went home, and even if he didn’t it’s where Isaac needs to be.

            _I know you’re pissed, but you have to hear me out. Come on, Derek. Please._

Thing is, Derek may have been pissed when he left David’s, but in the millisecond before the fury burst forth, there was soul-shattering pain in his eyes, and that’s worse than the anger.  The anger Isaac knows how to field, but Derek hurt is another monster altogether. 

            _Fuck._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

_Fucking. Fuck._

The Camaro’s parked haphazardly in the drive when he gets home, and he _almost_ breathes a sigh of relief until he sees Stiles waiting for him on the front porch.  He’s standing by the front door, too still, looking like someone just sucker punched him in the gut.  He says nothing as Isaac gets out of the car and approaches, not altogether sure what level of control Stiles has at the moment.

            “Stop,” Stiles says when Isaac’s foot lands on the top step.

            “Stiles—”

            “Derek said not to let you in the house,” Stiles says apologetically.  “He used the Alpha tone, Isaac. I can’t let—I—he—he said you—but you—you didn’t—you wouldn’t—right? He just—Tell me he was wrong,” Stiles pleads.

            The hurt on his face cuts through Isaac like a knife.  He looks down, unable to bear watching the reaction when he admits, “It’s not what Derek thinks it was, but he—he did kiss me.”

            “You stopped it though.  You didn’t—you told him—”

            “I told him I was married—which he knew, Stiles. Obviously knew. I told him he was out of his mind. I swear I told him ‘no’.  I fucking _swear_ to you. On my life, on yours, Derek’s, on Cam’s fucking grave or whatever the hell else you want me to.  It was nothing, one stupid moment I didn’t see coming, and the worst possible timing for Derek to knock on the door.  That is _all,_ ” Isaac insists, pulling his eyes up to meet Stiles’, hoping the sincerity carries through the gaze.

            Stiles doesn’t respond immediately, studying Isaac for what seems an eternity before he nods.

            “Okay.”

            “No, it’s not,” Isaac counters.  “Don’t look at me like that, Stiles. Don’t fucking _doubt_ that I love—”

            “I know you love us,” Stiles interrupts, tone confident.  “I just—it’s—I do believe you.  I promise.”

            “Then what?”

            Stiles shrugs noncommittally. “Sometimes it’s not that hard to see that you don’t belong on the sidelines with us,” he says, as he picks at the splinters on the handrail of the porch rather than meet Isaac’s eyes.  “You could go back in the game if you wanted.”

            “What the hell does that even mean?”

            “College, movie premieres, nights out bar-hopping—you could do it, you could be normal if you—”

            “Fuck normal,” Isaac retorts. “I want _you!_ That’s the only thing that fucking matters: me and you and Derek.  That’s it.  That’s all I care about.”  When Stiles still doesn’t look up he repeats his argument to David, “I’m not trapped, Stiles.  I want to be with you two more than anything else in the whole damn world.  If we re-did it all, I wouldn’t change a damn thing between us.  It’s fucking weird and perfect and—”

            “Perfect?” Stiles scoffs. 

            “Perfect,” Isaac repeats firmly, and Stiles finally looks up again.

            “Yeah?”

            “Of course, you moron,” Isaac assures, exasperated.  He holds up his left hand, wriggling his ring finger.  “I called dibs for a reason,” he reminds.  “No take backs, not ever.”

            Stiles beams at him then, bounding over the railing and off the porch to all but tackle Isaac with a hug. 

            “Good.”

            _So I got you.  Now what the fuck do I say to Derek?_

*********************************************************

             

            Derek shifts to full Alpha form and runs without thinking—his usual answer when the world throws more than he can handle.  What surprises him is where he’s stopped when he comes back to himself.  He’s used to wandering into the familiar corner of the cemetery, but instead he’s staring at the familiar back screen door of John Stilinski’s house.  He’s turning away when he hears the door squeak open.

            “Derek? Is that you?”

            He turns back to face the sheriff whose face transforms to a mask of worry.

            “What happened? Why are you—”

            He can’t answer in this form, and he can’t very well shift in the yard.  Instead he ambles past the sheriff up to the back porch and waits to be let in, hoping the lack of urgency will be enough of a calming response for the moment.

            “So nothing too bad?” the sheriff wonders, opening the door to let Derek in, and Derek can’t bite back the whine that escapes.

            _I don’t know how bad. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do._

“Sorry to break it to you, son, but I don’t speak Alpha,” the sheriff reminds with a kind smile.  “Maybe try again in English?”

            _Don’t know how to say it in English either,_ Derek thinks bitterly as he starts to shift back.  The sheriff tosses him the throw from the back of the couch and Derek wraps it around himself, hugging it maybe too tightly around himself for a man who’s supposed to be a tough, in-charge Alpha werewolf. 

            “What happened, Derek?”

            “Isaac—Isaac—I found Isaac with—somebody else.”

            “Oh,” the sheriff answers gravely, frown bringing deep lines to his face and a quiet anger to his eyes.  “I’m assuming you mean—”

            “He spent the night with him—kissed him—I don’t—I dunno what else or how long or—” Derek stops talking as his voice breaks, studying the floor embarrassedly as the tears follow.

            “What did Isaac say?”

            “I don’t—he—I just—”

            “Ran?” the sheriff supposes correctly, and Derek nods.  “Well, uh—the good news is there’s worse things you could’ve done, but the bad news is there’s a helluva lot better—”

            “What was I supposed to do?!” Derek snaps, anger rushing in to cover the vulnerability and battle the chastisement.  “I found him in another guy’s—”

            “Bed?”

            “No.”

            “Where?”

            “Apartment.”

            “Where he spent the night?”

            “Yes.”

            “And—did what that you know of?”

            “Kissed the guy.”

            “Kissed the guy or _got_ kissed by the guy? How much did you see?”

            “Enough.”

            “Derek—”

            “I said I saw fucking enough!”

            “Well excuse the hell out of me for trying to get your story together,” the sheriff snarks back. 

            “Sorry—just—how could he—”

            “Are you _sure_ he—”

            “I told you I—”

            “Because you know Isaac even better than I do.  You really think he’d ever—”

            “I _thought_ I knew Isaac.”

            “Now, son, that’s just bullshit,” the sheriff says matter-of-factly with an annoyed sigh.

            “What?” Derek replies, so dumbfounded by the assertion that he forgets to be pissed for two seconds.

            “Of _course_ you know Isaac.  You know you do.  You just walked in on a compromising situation, and it hurt like hell and you got scared.”

            “I’m not scared. I—”

            “Maybe it’s what you think it was,” the sheriff concedes.  “I’d bet you it wasn’t.  Regardless, it’s Isaac you should talk to about it, not me, glad as I am you feel like you can come to me.”

            “I—”

            “Stop running and process,” the sheriff instructs.  “Simmer down, get your head on straight so you can think before your temper gets the best of you.  Go home later tonight and you three can talk.”

            Derek opens his mouth to protest, but he can’t find a good enough argument for why that plan is horrible.  Because that plan _isn’t_ horrible.  It’s pretty damn fantastic, except for the part about processing instead of running which is maybe the worst prospect in the world for the next few hours. 

            “And text my son because we both know he’s worrying after you if you ran out,” the sheriff adds, turning to go toward the kitchen.  “Come on.  I bet you could use some coffee.  There’s bacon and eggs too—the real deal—as long as you promise not to rat me out.”

            Derek can’t help grinning just a little at that, following before he even decides to, letting the momentary feeling of fatherly affection overshadow just a bit of the stress.  They don’t speak much as they prepare the food, but it’s a comfortable silence.  Derek can’t help but start mulling over the matter, wishing he’d wake up any moment to find it was just some crazy nightmare.

            “If I talk to him about it—”

            “ _When_ you talk to him about it,” the sheriff corrects sternly. 

            “Fine. _When_ I talk to him,”Derek amends.  “How’m I—how do I trust whatever he says.  What if he’s just—”

            “Derek, I know as well as anyone else in the pack how long it takes to earn your trust.  It’s not something I take lightly, so I’m pretty sure Isaac wouldn’t either.  I just have a hard time believing he’d betray you or Stiles that way.  You three have been through hell together and—”

            “And could you blame him if he tried to get out?”

            “Yes, yes I could,” the sheriff replies.  “Because he made a vow to the men he married, and that holds true for the rest of his life.  He knew what he was getting into.  He knew it wouldn’t be easy.  He chose you boys anyway, just like you chose him.  A lot of things have been changing lately.  You’re settling into life, growing up more all the time, it’s scary as hell, but that doesn’t change how you three feel about each other.”

            Derek doesn’t respond because he isn’t sure how to.  He doesn’t think there are words for the fear he’s scared won’t ever leave that Isaac has just been toying with them this whole time.  There’s a nagging voice—that sounds way too fucking much like Kate—in the back of his mind that’s reminding what an idiot he was to trust anyone so completely and risk this kind of betrayal. 

            “I’m guessing you dated others before Isaac and Stiles,” the sheriff says.

            “Yeah,” Derek confirms, unwilling to expound that it was just one and she was a traitorous, pyromaniac hunter.

            “And someone along the way wasn’t the person you thought they were,” he supposes.  “They played you, and it hurt like hell.”

            “How do you—”

            “They didn’t make me a detective just because of my stunning sarcasm,” he says with a grin so like his son’s it’s uncanny.  “So I’m right?”

Derek nods, and the sheriff claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder in sympathy.  Derek shrugs away from the touch.

“Look, the point I’m getting at is there are tons of really shitty people in this world, but Isaac is not one of those people.  He’s a good person, and you know it.  Don’t let some asshole who hurt you years ago mess up something really fantastic you’ve got now.”

_Easier said than done._

***********************************************************

 

            Stiles let Isaac in the house once he got calm enough to override the obey-the-alpha conditioning.  Now they’re working on schoolwork with the Mets game on in the background.  The sound of someone jogging up outside, sends a wave of apprehension through the room in an instant.  Isaac heads for the door, meeting Derek halfway across the yard.

            “If you’re gonna yell at me, don’t make him listen,” Isaac says.  “Bad enough he’s been having to fight your Alpha decree so I could go in _our_ house.”

            Isaac didn’t mean to start this discussion on this tone.  He meant to be calm, apologetic, like he was with Stiles, but now he’s looking Derek in the face, Isaac just feels pissed and disappointed that Derek didn’t have enough faith to even stick around and listen to Isaac’s side of the story.

            “I’m not going to yell at you.  I came to hear whatever the fuck you’ve got to say.  Because I swear to God if you—”

            “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Isaac asserts.  “I hung out with a guy I thought was a friend.  He knows I’m married.  He’s met you both.  He took advantage of the situation, but that’s not my fault you can’t—”

            “You didn’t call or text or—”

            “I went up to grab some coffee before I came home. I fell asleep on his couch.  It was nearly four in the morning.  My phone was down in the car.  I made a mistake.  Can’t you just _trust_ me?”

            Derek doesn’t reply, averting his eyes to look anywhere but at Isaac instead. 

            “I want to. I just—but—you fucking kissed him, Isaac.  Tell me you didn’t.”

            “ _He_ kissed _me._ ”

            “And you kissed back,” Derek says, a statement not a question.

            Isaac can’t refute it as much as he may want to.

            “I stopped it,” he says instead.  “He caught me off guard, but the _second_ I realized what choice I was making I _stopped._ I can’t—I can’t control what he did or what he wanted, but _I_ want you and Stiles.  I told him ‘no’.  I told him it wouldn’t happen.  I won’t see him anymore.  I’ll ask to have a different partner.  That’s all—that’s all I can do.  I was headed out the door when you knocked on it.  I wish to God it’d been ten seconds later so you wouldn’t be—Derek, _how_ can you think I would betray you like that?”

            _Because that’s what I’m really pissed about, that you and Stiles know me better than anyone else in the world, and you still believe somehow that I could be truly unfaithful. After everything? What the hell, Derek? Come on._

“I know the shit you’ve been through.  I know how hard it is for you to let people in,” Isaac goes on. “You really think I’d hurt you? Didn’t you believe me when we said our fucking vows?  Less than a year, and you think I’d just throw that away? I. love. You.”

            “Well—”

            “I’m not _Kate_.”

            Isaac didn’t mean for the words to come out with such venom nor did he want to see the tears that Derek blinks back as he sets his jaw and the anger burns in his eyes instead.  Derek draws in a breath, and Isaac readies for whatever verbal or physical blows he plans to vent.  Instead, Derek lets the air out in a sigh that sounds almost defeated, eyes softening again.

            “I know you’re not, but—I’m—I’m me. I just—Kate and then Peter and—every time I let me guard down people—I trust them and then—I just—I—what the hell am I—how do I—I don’t what the fuck’s wrong with—”

            Isaac cuts off the distressing rambling with his lips on Derek’s.  At first Derek doesn’t move against him, and Isaac fears he’s going to pull away.  Then he starts to kiss back, slow at first and then more and more vigorously until they finally part, breathless.  Derek’s eyes bore into Isaac’s like they’re searching for some kind of answer, some last assurance to put the matter to rest, and Isaac can think of a million things that he could say right now.

            In the end he simply says,  “I love you so fucking much, Derek.  You gotta know that.  Don’t you?”

            Derek nods once, clears his throat, and says huskily, “Yeah.” 

Then he threads his fingers through Isaac’s and leads the way back up to the house.

“Love you too, ya know?” Derek says quietly.  “I just—”

“We’ll work on it,” Isaac assures.  “Don’t worry about it.”

_Your trust issues.  My balancing outside life and married life and pack life.  It’s all a work in progress._

                       

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading!! :D And for sticking with me through the crazy out-of-order updates! Hopefully for a while at least I'll be posting in more order. We shall see.
> 
> And speaking of posting, I know it's been a long time (especially for me) and while I do apologize for that, I am happy to report the delay is largely because my mental health has been VASTLY improving as of late. Leaps and bounds I didn't anticipate but hope continue, and that takes me out of my usual routine of escaping/venting through writing and out into the world to engage a bit :) Rest assured that I'm not abandoning the series at all. I'm far too in love with it for that. Updates will comes when I can; thanks in advance for patience! <3
> 
> PS. I got my LSAT scores back, and I'm applying to Law Schools *gulp* *cheer* *exaggerated dancing to Chvrches*
> 
> PPS. Thanks, as always, to Codarra for being a wonderful, speedy beta whose feedback undoubtedly improves this story we inadvertently sold our souls to.
> 
> PPPS. I just realized that this chapter pushed us over 100,000 words for Determined. Holy shit, folks! Thanks! :D *tackle hugs everyone*


	20. The More The Merrier

            Stiles has been dreading this moment from the minute he opened the fancy invitation with the Whittemores’ return address on it.  They aren’t particularly involved with the pack, but the holiday season seems to be bringing out the familial urges.  Since Lydia and Jackson are home for Thanksgiving, the Whittemores have invited the entire pack over for dinner.  If Stiles had to guess, Mrs. Whittemore had the whole thing fabulously catered.  It’s going to look like a movie set in there.  It’ll be perfect—until Stiles gets triggered and starts mumbling confessions and apologies about the last time he was at the Whittemore house.

            They didn’t move after the fire.  Stiles couldn’t be so lucky as that.  They rebuilt in excellent fashion, barely altering anything in the dream home Mr. Whittemore constructed for his lovely wife over a decade ago.  Stiles can’t tell them why he wouldn’t love the idea of a pack Thanksgiving though so he’s sitting in the back of the forerunner when they pull up to the house, worrying at the ring on his finger and trying to keep his breath even.

            _I can do this. I’m just psyching myself out.  I’ll be okay._

“I can’t do this,” he blurts aloud, panic pushing past mental reason. “I can’t.”

            “What?” Derek asks, turning to look back at Stiles.  “What’s wrong?”

            “I just—I can’t.”

            “Stiles, it’s all pack and family.  You’ve been doing great lately. You—”

            “It’s not that,” Stiles lies.  “I—I—we—I haven’t had a real Thanksgiving since my mom died,” he tells them; it’s true even if it’s not the reason he doesn’t want to go in. 

 

*****************************************************

 

            Isaac’s heart breaks with Stiles’ words.  He can understand the reluctance, though the fact Isaac hasn’t had a big Thanksgiving like this in years is all the more reason he’s been looking forward to today.  Last year Stiles regressed three days before and Thanksgiving got postponed and never really rescheduled.   This years Stiles has come so fucking far that they should be able to have the most boisterous, cheesy Hallmark Thanksgiving ever, but Isaac can’t very well drag him in there and make him have a good time. 

            “So you—you wanna go home?” Isaac asks, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

            “I don’t want to ruin it,” Stiles says.  “Just—uh—give me a minute.  Maybe I’ll come in after a little while.  I’ll work up to it.”

            “We can take our time going in,” Derek offers.  “We don’t have to—”

            “I’m going to feel super shitty if you two miss Thanksgiving because of me.  It’ll be easier to get myself together with just me.  You go on ahead.”

            “How about we send your Dad out?” Isaac wonders.  “Maybe—”

            “Yeah, send Dad out,” Stiles agrees, knowing he can convince Dad to take him away from the situation altogether without pulling Derek and Isaac away from the pack.  “Thanks.”

            “Sure.  If you want us to—”

            “Go,” Stiles urges.  “I’ll be fine. I swear.”

            Isaac leaves the keys with Stiles and heads into the house with Derek.  Derek’s forehead is creased in worry, but he’s hidden most of it by the time they reach the front door.  It swings open before Derek can knock.

            “Come in; come in!” Mrs. Whittemore greets with a warm smile. 

            “Is Stiles coming?” Scott wonders.

            “He—uh—he’s out in the car actually.  Sheriff, could you maybe—”

            “Yeah, of course,” the sheriff agrees, headed toward his son’s aid before he even knows what he’s committing to, as always.

            To Isaac’s surprise, Jackson puts out an arm to stop the sheriff walking past.

            “No, I’ll go,” he counters. 

            “I think it would be better if I—”

            “Five minutes,” Jackson replies.  “If I’m wrong, I’ll come back and get you.”

            “Wrong about what?” Isaac wonders, totally baffled. 

            “Five minutes,” Jackson repeats, heading for the door.

            “Look, Jackson it’s about his mom. He—”

            “It’s not,” Jackson refutes.  “Five minutes.”

            “What the hell was that?” Scott wonders as Jackson walks out, leaving a confused and stunned group in his wake.

            “I—um—there’s drinks and appetizers in the music room,” Mrs. Whittemore says into the silence.  “Let’s just head in there and give Jackson and Stiles a minute,” she suggests.

            “Why don’t you sound surprised that Jackson knows what’s wrong?” Lydia asks.  “What’s he going to talk to Stiles about?”

            “That’s—I’m not sure it’s really something—Stiles should be the one to explain if he wants to,” Mr. Whittemore replies.  “It’s nothing to worry about really.  Let’s just keep the festivities going,” he encourages.

 

********************************************************

 

            “Jackson what’re you—I asked for my Dad to—go back inside. You’re missing the—”

            _There’s only one reason you’re coming out here.  You know? How can you know? Please, please just go back inside._

            “You remember the fire, don’t you?” Jackson asks, ignoring Stiles’ babbling as he approaches the car.

            _No, you can’t know. You can’t. Even if you know, the others can’t.  Don’t, Jackson; don’t tell them.  You know they can hear us.  Stop talking. Please don’t do this._

            “Wh—what? What fire? I—I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Stiles finds himself backing toward the other side of the car, opening the door like he could flee, like Jackson won’t just walk around the moment Stiles is out—which he does. 

            “Stiles, it wasn’t your fault. We didn’t say anything because we thought you didn’t remember.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t remember. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t. I swear I don’t.”

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Please stop talking, Jackson. Please._

“You can’t think anyone would blame you for shit you did while you were robo-beta, man.  Come on.”

            “I don’t remember a fire,” Stiles lies, feeling the tears well in his eyes as panic grips tight as his chest.

            _Yes, you do,_ Thomas taunts. _You remember every single second.  You’ve seen it in nightmares so many times now you’ve lost count, you sniveling, disloyal wretch.  You can still hear the shrieks of the pathetic humans we trapped inside.  You can still smell the gasoline.  You remember the feel of the matchbook in your hands as you struck the spark that would roast your packmates parents alive._

Stiles’ eyes move unbidden toward the house, staring in horror as it transforms to the scene of that night.  Flames lick up the walls and at the windows. 

            “No, no, it—I don’t—I didn’t. I wouldn’t.  I—I love the pack. I wouldn’t hurt the pack.”

            _You wouldn’t? You wouldn’t hurt your pack like that?_ Alec taunts.  _Wouldn’t betray them? Wouldn’t orphan Jackson and leave Derek with nightmares of losing his own family.  You brought havoc on them and gladly.  They’ll never forget this, and they’ll never forgive it.  They’ll never look at you the same way again.  How can Derek trust you in his pack? How can any of them?_

            “Stiles, it’s okay. It wasn’t you. I know it. My parents know it. Nobody blames you.”

            “I didn’t mean it,” Stiles swears, tears falling freely now.  “Jackson, I wouldn’t ever hurt your family.  I wouldn’t—I didn’t mean—I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a choice. I—I—It wasn’t—I didn’t—”

            “It’s okay,” Jackson repeats again, taking a slow step forward.  “Just come in, dude.  Have some Thanksgiving dinner and do all the cheesy pack stuff and everything.  You love this shit.”

            _Derek will kick you out of that house the minute you try to step over the threshold,_ Rachael counters.  _You know he will.  Can you blame him?_

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

            “There’s nothing to be sorry for Stiles; it wasn’t you.”

            “No, it wasn’t I swear. I swear I didn’t—”

            “Hey,” Jackson interrupts sharply, hand coming to rest on Stiles’ shoulder.  “I murdered a whole sheriff’s department, moron.  I get it.  It wasn’t me; it was Matt.  It wasn’t you; it was the Alphas.”

            “How can you—you really aren’t—you could’ve lost your parents if I—”

            “I _didn’t_ , Stiles.  They’re inside with a stupidly expensive Thanksgiving dinner, including that weird green jello walnut shit you like so much.”

            _Can it really be that easy?_ Stiles wonders.

            _Of course not, beta,_ Thomas answers. _It’s never that easy._

_Shut up. You’re wrong. He doesn’t hate me. They don’t hate me. It was your fault, not mine._

*****************************************

 

            Isaac’s staring open-mouthed out the window as though he could see Jackson and Stiles through the car.  He can hear everything clearly, as can every wolf in the room.  Scott’s been recounting the conversation to the humans.  Now they all stand silent as Stiles and Jackson start toward the house. 

            _You really were there.  You really did help them fight us. You—fuck, Stiles, they made you do this on top of everything else?_

It puts another horrible light on the nightmares Stiles has.  Isaac can’t help but wonder how many of the “I’m sorry; I love my pack; don’t go” moments were fueled by this horrible secret he’s never shared.

            _We’d never blame you for this, Stiles. You should have told us.  You shouldn’t have carried it alone this long._

 

*******************************************

 

            Derek remembers the fire too.  He remembers the terror in Jackson’s voice when they first caught sight of the flames and the searing heat as they charged into the house to pull out the unconscious Whittemores.  It had been close, too close, the EMTs said.  The memory of the fire dredges up the panic and fury that marked that night, but all of that fades away when Stiles hesitates in the doorway.

            “Derek, I—” Stiles starts voice broken and words seemingly caught in his throat.

            “Jackson’s right,” Derek says firmly.  “It was the Alphas, not you.”

            _They used you to get to us.  None of it was your fault._

Stiles stares at Derek like he can’t believe he heard correctly.  His eyes move around the room tentatively, like he’s waiting for the moment to shatter and someone to start screaming.  A smile starts to play at the corner of his lips when no animosity arises.

            “Really—you’re—we’re all cool? Just like that?”

            “Yeah, you doof,” Scott replies.  “Whatever you were with them wasn’t you.  No way we’d hold it against you.”

            “Of course not,” Mrs. Whittemore agrees.  “Come on in, Stiles. Please.  We’re so happy to have all of you here.”

            “Thanks,” Stiles says with a shy smile that has Derek reaching forward to catch his hand and lace his fingers through. 

            From somewhere in the general direction of the dining room, a dish shatters.  Derek turns toward it along with the others as Mr. Whittemore hurries to see what happened and no doubt chastise the caterers.   Stiles hand goes limp in Derek’s, and apprehension shoots through Derek as he turns his gaze snaps back to Stiles.  The tell-tale panic shines in Stiles’ hazel eyes, and Derek fights to keep his face expressionless as the wave of despair crashes over him.   

            “Stiles?” Derek tries, hoping in spite of the signs that it will get the desired reaction, but Stiles just ducks his head while not-so-subtly trying to take in the room from the corner of his eyes.  “Beta?”

            “Yes, Alpha.”

            “Stay calm. It’s all right.  You lose your memories sometimes; you’ve got nothing to be afraid of here, nothing to be punished for.”

            “Thank you, Alpha.”

            “Look me in the eyes, beta,” Derek directs.  “Try to find your memories.  Can you remember my name?”

            He studies Derek’s face a while before some kind of recognition dawns.

            “Derek?”

            “That’s good. That’s right. Call me Derek, not Alpha. Now what about your name? Can you remember that?”

            Stiles closes his eyes this time and seems to be concentrating hard before just a hint of a smile crosses his face and he answers proudly, “Damon, Derek; my name is Damon.”

            “What?”

            “D-damon?” Stiles repeats, confidence failing. “It—it means loyal even unto death it’s—it’s—the most loyal friend in Greek—I’m sorry, Alph—Derek.  I thought—I thought it—”

            “It’s the name she gave him,” Isaac interjects, looking ready to vomit.  “The Alpha who kidnapped us in the summer.  She called him Damon.”

            “I’ll be loyal to you now though, Derek,” Stiles swears, hitting his knees.  “Loyal to _you_.  Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t know another Alpha—”

            “It’s okay,” Derek replies.  “You’re not in trouble; I’ve just never heard that name before. I was confused. I’m not angry.”

            “Thank you, Derek. I can—I can answer to anything, Derek. Anything you want.”

            “We call you Stiles in this pack.”

            “Yes, Derek. Thank you.”

            “Can you come with me?” Derek asks, reaching for Stiles’ arm though Stiles flinches at the touch. 

            “Yes, Derek.”

            “Don’t hurt the humans,” Derek instructs.  “Everyone here is a friend; they’re safe, understand?”

            “Yes, Derek.”

            “Mrs. Whittemore, is there a place we can—”

            “The library,” she offers, gesturing down the hall.  “Third door on the right.”

            “Thank you,” Derek says.  “You all go ahead and eat. We’ll—we’ll be back in a minute I think.”

 

**********************************************************

 

            Isaac wouldn’t call it the best Thanksgiving they’ve ever had.  Still, Stiles managed to obey and stay clam and join them at the table.  It put a strain in the room, but Derek’s hand in Stiles seemed to anchor him well enough.  It’s honestly one of his best regressions yet.  Isaac just hates that Stiles won’t even remember this, and no matter how many times they try to tell him he didn’t ruin the day, Stiles will still have that guilty look in his eye that Isaac hates to see.  There’s also the somewhat startling assertion of the name Damon in the regression.  It’s never happened before, and Isaac hopes it’s not a harbinger of something worse to come.  He forgets his worry though when Stiles come back to them the next morning, chipper as ever and eager to go over to Scott’s and try out the new game console that was the fruit of his Black Friday endeavor. 

 

*******************************************************

 

            Isaac walks in from his last final to find Stiles ransacking the kitchen table in what’s clearly a desperate attempt to locate something he’s lost.

            “Project to turn in?” Isaac guesses, and Stiles turns to face him, eyes wide in panic, seemingly on the verge of tears.

            “I can’t find the list,” he replies forlornly.  “I know I left it here, Isaac. I _know_ I did.  Derek gave it to me, and I put it there, but now it’s gone and it’s nearly time for lunch and I can’t remember if it said two protein or three and—”

            “Hey, hey, deep breaths, Stiles,” Isaac soothes.  “No punishments in this pack, remember? It’s okay.  I’ll help you find the list later, but I memorized it.  It’s two protein.  Derek won’t be angry if lunch is late.  You want me to help you?”

            He studies Isaac a moment, looking for the trick in the words, before he nods.

            “Please, Isaac? I’ll memorize the list once you help me find it. I promise. I won’t lose it again.”

            “It’s okay. I don’t mind helping.  It’ll help me relax a little anyway.”

            “Thank you, Isaac.”

            They’ve just started getting together ingredients when Isaac hears Derek jogging up out back.  Stiles freezes where he stands, closing his eyes as he starts to tremble.

            “He won’t hurt you; I swear,” Isaac says gently.  “I’m going to go talk to him, okay?”

            Stiles nods, moving quickly to continue with the chili he’s planning to go along with sandwiches.  Isaac meets Derek at the back door.

            “Stiles is a little late on lunch,” Isaac says, meeting Derek at the door, resisting the urge to ask why the hell Derek left him alone while he was regressed.  “I promised him you wouldn’t be mad.”

            “What?”

            “Stiles is—”

            “No, I heard you,” Derek replies, “but we ate lunch already.  PB&J before I went running.  He was staying to finish up his final paper for politics.  Is he regressed?”

            “Yeah, he was looking for the list so he could make lunch before you got back.”

            “What the hell? How did he know there was a list? And he didn’t shift when you walked in?”

            “No, he knew exactly who I was,” Isaac replies, only realizing now exactly how odd that is; Derek may always tell Stiles that Isaac will be coming home eventually, but Stiles never accepts his presence so easily.  “Stiles?” Isaac calls as he goes back into the house.  “Stiles, who told you about the list? Who gave it to you?”

            “Derek,” Stiles replies, confusion and worry burgeoning across his face.

            “When?”

            “Yesterday.”

            Isaac looks to Derek, unsure how to proceed from here.  Yesterday Stiles was fine, not learning how to function with them.  He remembers some other regression; he picked up where he left off.

            _Picked up from last episode? Are you Damon again?_

            “Stiles, what was your name before Derek gave you one?” Isaac asks.

Stiles’ eyes dart from Isaac to Derek and the down to the floor.

            “Damon,” he mumbles quietly, “but I’m loyal to Derek now,” he adds firmly, looking back up.  “I like this pack. I want to be loyal to _this_ pack. I—”         

            “What happened before you were looking for the list?” Derek interrupts.

            “I—I don’t know,” Stiles admits.  “I promise I didn’t fall asleep, Derek. I _promise._ I just—I was showering after breakfast, like you told me to, and then I was here in the kitchen, and so much time had passed, hours, but I don’t—I think—my mind was weak, Derek. I lost time.  But I didn’t sleep. I wasn’t being lazy.  I _want_ to do all the things on the list. I just—I don’t know what happened.”

            “You’re not in trouble. I’m just trying to understand.  What did we do yesterday, Stiles?”

            “The humans made a meal for the pack,” Stiles replies, “Thanksgiving,” he amends.  “We had Thanksgiving with the humans.”  Isaac and Derek must be doing a poor job of masking their reactions to the words because Stiles stutters, “R-right? Didn’t we, Derek?”

            “No, Stiles, that was two weeks ago,” Derek replies.  “That’s why you’re confused.”

            “Oh,” Stiles says, biting at his bottom lip.  “I forgot things again.  I didn’t mean to, Derek. I—”

            “You don’t have to apologize,” Derek replies.  “Thank you for being so eager to help as soon as you—came—came back I guess?”

            “Of course, Derek.”

            “We can go ahead and make chili,” Isaac says.  “It can simmer until dinner.  It’ll make it even better.  You could call Morrell maybe?” he asks Derek.

            “Yeah, think I will.”

 

*****************************************************

 

            “Holly Morrell,” she answers when Derek dials her number. 

            “This is Derek. We have—I’m not sure if it’s exactly a problem, but a new kind of regression thing with Stiles.”

            “A new regression?”

            “He picked up this regression where the last one left off.”

            “I see,” she replies.  “Anything else? Remembering different Alphas?”

            “He doesn’t seem to.  Should we be worried about this? Is it some kind of break or is it good?”

            “You know as well as I do nothing is certain in mental health, Derek, especially not Stiles’ mental health.”

            “Yeah, but—what do we do?”

            “Whatever you normally do,” she recommends.  “I’d like to speak with Stiles as soon as he’s back to himself though.”

            “Sure,” Derek replies, trying not to sound disappointed that she hasn’t got more of an answer.  “Bye.”

 

********************************************************

 

            Stiles knows it’s not his business to listen to the Alpha’s call.  It’s not his place to wonder and ask questions.  He still can’t help trying to figure out why Isaac and Derek seem so thrown.  Last time they seemed so prepared, as though this happens frequently, they even spoke like it happens frequently. Now they both seem worried and confused.

            “Did I just forget the two weeks?” he wonders, trying to piece it together.  “I was still good, right? I didn’t do anything—”

            “It’s complicated, Stiles,” Isaac replies apologetically.  “Yes, you were good. You were just—different.”

            “I can be whatever he wants me to be.  I can learn to—”

            “It’s not that.  You’re not doing anything wrong.  You’re just—not exactly yourself right now.”

            “I—I don’t understand,” he admits because he’s supposed to ask questions when he’s confused.  “I do what Derek told me, what you told me; this is what I did last time.”

            “I know—just—you remember us saying you learned the punishments from alphas who weren’t Derek? That he didn’t teach you to be afraid?”

            “Yes.”

            “The truth is he—he didn’t teach you any of that.  You were just friends before.”

            “What?”

            “You were friends before you were in our pack.  Other alphas turned you, and you learned their rules not ours.  You kind of—you can let go of the rules sometimes and go back to how you were when we were all just friends.”

            “But I’m still good, right? You said I was still good.”

            “Yes, Stiles.  He’s not getting rid of either version of you.  You always have a place in this pack.”

            “Always,” Derek confirms, walking back in.

            “Thank you, Derek,” Stiles says.

            “I know you’re confused,” Derek says. “Honestly, we are too.  You’ve never—usually your episode are all individual.  You usually reset completely.”

            “Oh, well, I—this is good.  I know things. You don’t have to waste time teaching.”

            “Teaching’s not a waste. We don’t mind. Ask as many questions as you want to.”

            Stiles hesitates, biting back the question that’s in his mind since Isaac says he was a friend to the pack before he was in it.

            “When—” he begins despite his better judgment.  “Never mind.  I—it’s not important,” he amends, turning back to his task.

            “You can ask anything you want,” Derek assures.  “‘When’ what?”

            “When did you start calling me Stiles? Is Stiles the friend? From before? I should be like Stiles, not like Damon?”

 

********************************************************

 

            It’s more than a little bizarre to hear Stiles talk about himself like he’s two people.  It’s even more bizarre that Derek’s having trouble finding an answer to the question that isn’t “yes.”

            “You’re not two people,” Isaac argues.  “It’s—you’re always you, Stiles.”

            “So Stiles was the friend?” he asks.  “I mean I,” he amends quickly.  “I was the friend and other alphas made me Damon.”

            As much as Derek may completely separate Stiles and regressed Stiles in his mind, he’s never delved into the comparison.  They’re a package; one doesn’t determined the other.  They’re two sides of one coin.

            _But they are different.  He’s exactly right, he was Stiles and they made him the shell—Damon, whatever he wants to call it—and yes I want you to just be regular Stiles, but I can’t say that, because you can only be one or the other, not both.  This version of you can’t be the real Stiles.  It’s impossible._

“Kind of,” Derek replies.  “If that’s the easiest way for you to think about it.”

            “How do I get back to Stiles? I need the memories?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I can take memories, Derek,” he offers.  “I can take as many as you’ll give me.  I’ll find Stiles—find _me_ —in the memories.”

            As disconcerting is that Stiles clearly doesn’t identify himself as ‘Stiles’ right now, it’s even more disconcerting that not only does Derek want to go along with it, he doesn’t feel bad for wanting to go along.  It’s the simplest explanation they’ve ever had really. 

            “You understand that—that the way you are now isn’t bad, don’t you?” Derek asks.  “You know that it’s okay if you have trouble getting the memories back.  However long it takes, and even if they never come back, you still have a place.  You’re still loved and wanted and kept.  Damon, Stiles, whoever you are.”

            “Yes, Derek, I understand; thank you.”

“Good.”

“But I want—I want to be Stiles I think,” he adds tentatively.  “If that’s okay?”

Derek nods, words failing him, looking to Isaac for help.

“You'll never stop being Stiles,” Isaac says reassuringly.  “You’re always Stiles; you don’t ever have to be Damon again.  Derek can help you though, if you want to see more of your usual self?”

“Yes,” Stiles says with a nod.  “I want to be usual Stiles.”

 

*********************************************************

 

            Stiles comes back to himself in the hallway, mid-step.  He trips just a little before coming to a stop, but it’s not the usual feeling of coming back from an episode.  It’s more like—like he fell asleep during a movie.  He sees certain scenes and automatically tries to fill in the gaps; it’s not hard, almost like someone has told him the bits that he missed.

            _No, not just a random someone,_ he amends mentally as he processes the situation and the new input jumbling around in his head.

            Stiles turns, heading back toward the sounds of movement coming from the den.

            “Stiles?” Isaac asks when he comes around the corner.  “You okay?”

            “Who the fuck is Damon?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so yes lots of questions probably, but if I left you with everything nice and summed up there'd be no need for another part :) 
> 
> thank you all so much for continuing to read! I'm so glad other people enjoy this world :) Y'ALL ROCK!
> 
> Also, shoutout to my betas, especially Kinthinia for the great feedback on the chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I am thrilled to hear your thoughts, prompts (for Determined chapters or anything really), comments, criticisms, or just how your day is going. :) Feel free to drop by my ask on tumblr (packdontendwithblood.tumblr.com) or email arebutvagueshadows@gmail.com
> 
> Thanks again for continuing to explore this world with me! It's a true pleasure!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Determined [FANART] Promise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401637) by [Loup_Aigre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loup_Aigre/pseuds/Loup_Aigre)




End file.
